Wherever You Go, There You Are
by Loafer
Summary: Complete. LASSIET. What he thinks she thinks, what she thinks he thinks, what others think they think, what a change of scenery can do for the thinking man, and how it affects the thinking woman in the process.
1. Chapter 1: Salty Seas

**Claim of Innocence**: what, me pretend I own psych? *blink blink*  
**Rating**: T  
**Summary**: LASSIET. What he thinks she thinks, what she thinks he thinks, what others think they think, what a change of scenery can do for the thinking man, and how it affects the thinking woman in the process.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

**CHAPTER ONE: Salty Seas**

**. . . .  
****. . .**

She curled into his arms, warm and soft, and invited a kiss he was only too happy to give.

The ocean breeze through the open window was cool—and timeless, in a way—and the sound of the waves a gentle background to the relative silence of the room.

These past hours together in his bed had been remarkable and erotic and entirely mutual. Carlton had learned much about her body and her needs while she taught herself about his, and it was so incredible a feeling to give himself over to a woman's touch after so long alone—to be open with her, _to_ her.

He stroked her hair back from her face. "You're pretty amazing."

"I know," she teased. "But so are you. I love all the shades of blue in your eyes."

"How many are there?" He was never comfortable talking about his eyes; he didn't see what the big deal was.

"At least seventeen, I think. I missed a few when they rolled back into your head. You know, while I was—"

"Yes," he said briskly, and stopped her laughter with a kiss.

She purred with satisfaction, hooking her leg over his thigh and pressing close to him, and Carlton shivered at the sensations all over again.

"I'm glad you're here." She nuzzled his jaw. "I'm glad you chose Orange Beach to hide out in. Merry Christmas, Carlton."

He brought a lock of her curly brown hair to his lips and drank in her scent. "Merry Christmas to you too, Marcy."

**. . . .  
****. . . **

It was the night before Christmas Eve, and life on the beach along the Gulf Coast had been peaceful for Carlton the last two months. He'd paid big bucks for a few deep sea fishing charters, he'd rented a boat for inshore fishing. He'd read, he'd walked the beach, he'd hung out in a few of the local nightspots and made some casual friendships. Absorbed a little history too by way of tours of the Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines sites and even the U.S.S. Alabama in Mobile, with a side trip up to Spanish Fort.

He'd relaxed.

He'd even _felt_ relaxed.

He'd met Marcy.

She was part-owner of Salty Seas, a restaurant/tavern near the state line. She tended bar and kept the books and talked to him on slow nights—and sometimes even on fast nights. Intelligent and amusing, she made him feel comfortable in his own skin, which was an unusual experience for him where women were concerned. She didn't exactly flirt, but over the last couple of weeks he was pretty sure she liked him a lot, even though his conscious mind said he was crazy.

She wasn't Juliet. She didn't look like her or sound like her or smell like her.

But then again, that was sort of the point of being here.

He lay beside her as she slept, knowing she'd be gone when he woke next, and he had mixed feelings about that.

The last few nights, their talks had gotten more flirtatious, more intimate. He told her about Juliet. That is, he told her he'd come here for an extended period to get his head and heart straight, and still didn't know if it was possible.

She said it was time he discovered what else—who else—was out there. She said she expected nothing and knew better than to get involved with a man who admitted to loving another woman, let alone one who lived two thousand miles away, but it was Christmas.

"Let's give each other a present," she'd said simply. "No strings."

Part of him knew better. Part of him was just too damn lonely to resist.

And the part of him who could still be influenced by alcohol joined forces with the part of him which was lonely and together they succumbed to the lure of this warm and attractive woman, which was why he now knew what Marcy looked like naked.

Marcy shifted beside him, waking enough to murmur his name and stroke his chest.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered.

But she didn't. She yawned and pushed her hair out of her face and said, "You're thinking about her again."

God save him from perceptive women.

But he had to be honest. "Actually, I was thinking about you."

"Yeah?" She smiled and nuzzled his shoulder. "About how I'm not her."

Carlton looked at her, feeling uneasy. "Marcy—"

"It's okay. I meant what I said: no strings. But now that I've got your attention, let's talk some more about her."

His heart constricted, but he said nothing.

"What's her name?"

"Juliet." He called her that in his head, anyway. In person it was usually O'Hara.

"That's pretty. Is she a looker?"

"You could say so," he said dryly, thinking of Juliet's beautiful dark blue eyes, her wide sunny smile, her perpetual glow.

"_I_ can't say so. But you can. What does she look like?"

An angel. Salvation. Hope.

Love.

_Off limits. Never gonna happen. _

_You're an idiot._

Carlton sighed. "Blue-eyed blonde."

Marcy laughed. "I was expecting you to wax a little more poetic than that. Does she know you're nuts about her?"

"God, I hope not."

"Why not?"

"I'm already a moron for feeling this way about her. Why make it worse by confessing?"

"Because she might—hang on, don't shake your head at me; you don't know what I'm going to say."

"She _wouldn't_," he said emphatically. "We're partners. And she has a boyfriend."

"She can't be secretly pining for you?"

Carlton gave her a look. "That'd be a first."

She gave him a similar look. "Didn't _I_ just spend the last few hours in bed with you?"

"That's not pining. That's Jack Daniels, holiday melancholy and lowered inhibitions."

Marcy glared. "Buddy, you must think I put moves on every blue-eyed customer at my bar if that's all this was to you."

He was instantly mortified. "No. Dammit, that's not what I meant. It's got nothing to do with you. It's all me."

"Oh, good Lord; what a load of horse hockey."

"Wait just a minute. You don't know me like I know me. You don't know—"

"You're right," she interrupted. "I don't know you like you know yourself, or like other people know you. I only know you like _I_ know you. You're attractive and amusing and despite what you've said about being a cranky hardass at work, all I've seen is the more relaxed guy who likes fishing and a little Scotch now and then. It's kind of hard for me to see that women wouldn't find you attractive, and before you ask, I would have said that _before_ I got you into bed tonight."

She sat up fully, holding the sheet to her chest, and for a moment her glare reminded him of Juliet.

"Okay." He sat up too, leaning against the headboard. "You don't know the _workday_ me."

"But she does. And she's _still_ your partner. I've known other cops, you know. I understand that bond."

The bond which had kept him going for years.

Still, so what?

"It doesn't mean she'd ever be—or has ever been—interested."

Marcy ran her hand through her curls, obviously exasperated.

"Why are we talking about her at all?" he asked. "Isn't pillow talk supposed to be about the people who are actually in bed together?" How often did he even _get_ to be in a bed with a naked woman who liked him?

She grinned. "I've always been a little different. And intensely curious, I've been told. So what did Juliet have to say about you taking this extended leave?"

He hesitated.

She waited.

Still he hesitated.

Marcy's eyebrows went up. "Oh. How _interesting_."

**. . . .  
****. . .**

One day he gave himself a metaphorical whack upside the head. It was time to break free of his Juliet addiction, time to accept she was fully with Spencer, time to figure out whether he was attached to a dream or a reality, time to find out what he really wanted and what he could really live with when all was said and done.

Spencer was annoying, and seven years' experience with him had only made Carlton weary, but if Juliet totally lost her mind and married the guy, or worse, had children by him…

He wanted to be over her _before_ that happened. He wanted to know he could be her friend and partner and not want anything more.

Or he wanted to know he would always want more, and figure out how to live without it, even if it meant living without her in his life at all.

He needed time to think. And he needed to be left alone to do it.

So he put a letter on Vick's desk one Friday night after everyone else was gone. In it, he apologized for going against policy, he accepted in advance whatever disciplinary action she might have to take, and he hoped she understood that he wouldn't be doing this if it weren't absolutely necessary.

His emergency leave would begin Monday, October 22, and he would return to work March 18. He said he'd call her every few weeks to check in, but otherwise, he would be unavailable.

By midnight, he was already three hours down the road.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Marcy stared. "You didn't tell Juliet you were even _thinking_ about time off?"

He shook his head.

"Damn, man, that's five months. I mean, I knew you'd been here for at least two—but you've talked to her, right?"

He shook his head again.

She let out a low whistle. "Did you give a reason for the leave in your letter?"

"No. And I'll still have over seven months left when I get back."

"Workaholic," she said dismissively.

No denying it. But so far, his time here had taught him he _could_ relax, and he _could_ be a person instead of a full-time cop.

"Have you at least talked to your _boss_?"

"Yeah. I've called her a few times. She wasn't too happy with me but she admitted I wouldn't have taken off without good cause."

"Did she ask what the cause was?"

He frowned. "I think she was concerned I might be sick but she hasn't pried."

Marcy was still staring at him in surprise. "And not a word to Juliet?"

Carlton felt uncomfortable under her dark-eyed scrutiny. "She's emailed and left phone messages. Texts too. But I… can't. I can't respond. Not yet."

She paused, and then said slowly, "She's worried about you."

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Ease her fears."

Simple words.

"I can't."

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Worried about him.

That was what the messages indicated. They tugged at his heart and that's why he could not answer her yet. She seemed so sincerely worried: _where are you, why didn't you tell me, can I help you, why won't you talk to me, Vick says you're all right but she doesn't know anything, please, please just talk to me_…

Then a few weeks back, the messages changed. She started writing emails to him as if she were just catching him up after a long day. She was keeping him in the loop of her life—not her life with Spencer, thank God, but everything else.

In a way that made it worse.

He only turned the phone on once a week, and read Juliet's messages and listened to her voicemails then. Getting everything from her in one big dose, while it seemed like it should be less painful than little daily stabs, was harder, because… because he was defenseless against the onslaught of emotion—of _longing_—that way.

Resolutely keeping the phone off was helping him, he told himself. Not just making it harder to be found via his GPS, but _helping_ him.

Sure.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

"What's to stop her from just finding you?" Marcy asked. "She's a cop. She can run your credit cards, right?"

"She can, but even if she wanted to, she won't. It's against policy and she could get in trouble. Besides, I've done my best to avoid leaving a paper trail."

She was skeptical. "If you think she won't look, why would you bother to hide?"

"She _won't_ look," he said with confidence. "But her asshat boyfriend might."

"Why?"

Carlton rubbed his face, sighing. "You'd have to know him to really understand, but the main thing is this. Spencer is an invasively nosy little SOB and he's the one person who would make an effort to find me, just to prove he _could_. I'm not saying he'd come 2000 miles to rub it in, but it would be exactly like him to find out everything he could long-distance just to be able to say he knew it."

Marcy's expression was dubious. "Are you serious?"

He debated listing even five examples of Spencer-behavior to show how serious he was. But screw that, because ultimately _Spencer_ wasn't his problem. "Yes."

She found his tone of finality amusing, because her grin came back. "Okay, enough about him. How on earth could you get down here and rent this place without leaving a paper trail? And if it's going to turn out you're a dirty cop with a suitcase full of blood money, let me get my clothes back on before you answer."

"I'd eat my gun before I became a dirty cop," he said with immediate heat, and her eyes grew wide. "Sorry. I take my job seriously."

"I can see that."

She moved to rest beside him against the headboard, the sheet still covering her, and he was oddly glad. It was as if now that they were discussing his useless romantic history, the fact they'd just had damned good sex was something they were tacitly going to ignore.

"So how did you do it?" she persisted.

Planning.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Once he decided he needed time—a substantial block of time—he also realized he had to go as far away as he could and say as little as possible about it while leaving as miniscule a trail as possible in the process.

Six weeks before the date he'd chosen (he wanted to be gone during the major holidays and as a bonus, Valentine's Day), he started putting money onto a prepaid Visa card as well as in traveler's checks. He withdrew from his savings and sold some odds and ends to put together enough cash for what he needed, and also bought a disposable phone.

As he traveled the country heading for the Gulf Coast, he stayed in decent hotels using the Visa card and his police ID—any time he ran up against someone who didn't want to take the card, he offered to give over the Chief of Police's phone number; it either worked (no one ever called Vick that he knew of) or he politely withdrew and went to another hotel. Sometimes hinting that he was on an undercover mission would woo a clerk into bending policy a little.

At gas stations, he either paid inside or used the card. He wasn't worried about showing his police ID; he knew it was unlikely anyone would actually call Vick, and less likely she would tell anyone in Santa Barbara where he was even if she knew. Merely showing an ID—even allowing his driver's license to be photocopied at hotels—wouldn't turn up in any check of his financial records.

Renting this beachside condo had been his main point of concern, but that had worked out too. Off-season the rates were lower, particularly for long-term rentals, and he chose an older property offered by a relatively un-prominent realty company. He played the implied undercover and/or need-to-stay-off-radar card, made his total payment up front via traveler's checks (a bit painful, and his savings account back home was whimpering a little), most definitely had to show his police ID and practically urged the agent to call Vick (she didn't).

The unit was on the end of the building, on the first floor, ocean-side; all he had to do was walk down the stairs and straight to the water's edge. He was close to several restaurants and taverns, close to the fishing charters, close to boat rentals—close to everything, without having to interact with anyone when he didn't damn well feel like it.

Lots of days, he didn't feel like it. He did feel like soaking up the sun on the deck, like sipping a beer while reading a regimental history, like napping on the sofa with the sliding door open so he could hear the waves, because now there was time for such things.

None of this was helping him get over Juliet. But he was certainly rested and healthy and more optimistic about the future, and there had been a few moments when he actually thought the blasphemous _maybe I don't even have to be a cop_… but those moments were rare and not to be trusted. He knew no other life, and he wanted no other life.

He just didn't want the life apart from being a cop to be so devoid of… the _life_ part.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

"Are you going broke doing this?"

"No. I'll be working a lot of overtime when I get back, but I'll be okay." He hoped. Just his luck, he'd have some financial setback like a condo fire or a car explosion or a... _knock it off, Pollyanna._

Marcy looked him over judiciously. "As an aside, you do look healthier than the first time I saw you. But why'd you have to come here to get a tan? Isn't Santa Barbara on the ocean too?"

"Shorts and sandals don't really work for the police station," he pointed out. "Plus, you already figured out I spend too much time working."

"If they could see you now," she half-sang. "All tanned and healthy. Have I told you you've got great legs?"

He felt himself blushing. "No, and you don't have to."

"Tall lean men are the best." She stroked his arm lightly, but he knew it wasn't a come-on, not this time. Not ever again. "You know, the first few nights you were in my place, I thought you were casing the joint."

He was instantly outraged. "Why in the _hell_ would you think—"

She laughed. "Come on. You seemed to be watching everyone, checking out the cash register and the customers."

"For God's sake," he protested, "I wasn't—"

"I know, I know. I finally figured out you were watching everyone else to make sure _they_ weren't casing the joint. That's how I knew you were a cop before you told me."

He remembered her addressing him as "officer" at the end of his third night in, and repressing the urge to snap "Head Detective" in response.

Marcy was smiling. "Old habits, right?"

"Yeah." He felt tired suddenly, tired beyond how he'd expended his energy so far this evening. Talk—particularly talking about himself—was so very wearying. "Sorry if I spooked you."

"I've dealt with worse. You don't run a bar in a beach town very long before you learn how to handle all kinds of trouble. I have to admit, you weren't the run-of-the-mill potential bad guy. Those eyes alone, plus how you looked all cool and collected, dressed far too nicely for a dive like Salty Seas."

"It's not a dive."

She shrugged. "Not really, I suppose, but it's not exactly upscale." She fussed with the sheet a moment. "Would your Juliet like it?"

"Yes." No hesitation. "She'd be comfortable there." He could imagine her, in jeans and a scoop-neck top, hair brushing her shoulders, blue eyes bright as she sipped on wine or a beer, relaxed and having a good time.

"You've been out drinking?" Her tone was curious.

"Not… not alone, if that's what you mean. Not like a date. We've had drinks after work now and then and we've had a hell of a lot of meals together."

"Sure," Marcy agreed, almost absent. "So how long have you been partners?"

"Seven years."

"And you're friends, right? Hard to see how you wouldn't be, given how much time you must have spent together."

Carlton hesitated, because he wanted the words to be right. "There is no better partner for me, and she's the best friend I've ever had."

It still didn't seem enough.

Marcy studied him for a moment. "Would you say she feels the same way about you?"

He blinked. "She's let me know the partnership matters, but I don't see how I could be her _best_ friend. She's younger and more social and I'm sure she's had closer friendships with other people throughout her life."

"But you'd agree she at least considers you a very _good_ friend."

Shrugging, because this was hard to talk about, he offered no objection.

"And your master plan, if I understand it, was to come down here to get over her so you can go back home and pick up the partnership and friendship without the complication of being in love with her."

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds stupid," he said tartly, "but yes."

She only laughed. "It's not stupid. I get what you're hoping for. You're not the first person who ran away to get some breathing room, and it does work sometimes."

He hoped to God it would work for him.

"Here's my question. She's been emailing and voice-mailing and texting you but you haven't contacted her at all in the last two months, right?"

Carlton frowned. "Yes, but—"

"And right now you intend to keep it that way until March?"

"If that's what it takes." He knew he sounded stiff.

"That's really not going to work out for you, Carlton."

Her tone was serious, and he began to feel even more uneasy. "So now you can see the future?"

"I can see logic, and I know how a woman—how a friend—would think. You have to contact her."

"I told you. I can't."

"I'm not saying you need to have a heart-to-heart. I'm saying you need to check in with her. An email, a text—just a few words to let her know you're all right."

"I _can't_," he repeated tensely.

"Uh, yeah, you can, and you _will_. And here's why." Marcy sighed, and turned to face him more fully. "Dave's my partner. He and I have been running Salty Seas for ten years. He and his wife are like my parents and siblings and children all rolled into one dynamic duo. If Dave took off without a word, and then waltzed in hale and healthy after five months, the first thing he'd get from _me_ is my fist punching him in the nose. I would be so pissed off, and so hurt, to have been completely cut off by someone who didn't even have the decency to limp in carrying one leg in his arms and maybe missing his spleen and a kidney."

He stared at her, senses prickling with the truth of what she was saying.

"I'd deserve more from my friend. And she deserves more from hers." Her eyes were dark and intent, pinning him down the same way Juliet could with only a look.

He was silent, because he was unable to speak.

"So email her," she went on bluntly. "Tell her you're okay and say Merry damn Christmas, or when you get back to Santa Barbara, I _promise_ you there'll be neither a friendship nor a partnership left for you to preserve."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2: Codicils

**CHAPTER TWO: Codicils**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

When Carlton woke at dawn, Marcy was already gone, and he lay in bed awhile considering everything she'd said.

He also considered the surrealism of the discussion itself: what kind of selfish jerk was he to have allowed her to engage him in analysis of his feelings for Juliet so soon after she'd given _herself_ over to him intimately? While they were both still naked under the sheets?

Her final, gentle words to him were that another few hours of sleep would be nice; she kissed his cheek chastely and settled back against her pillow, seemingly out for the count only moments later.

_Moron. Insensitive clod moron._

He wasn't a one-night stand kind of guy; never had been. He'd _had_ a few one-night stands, but never felt right about them. Sometimes he wished he _could_—wished he could be as casual about sex and intimacy as others around him seemed to be.

(He didn't delude himself that he was some throwback to an era of "gentlemen," either. He knew it was merely uncommon enough for a woman to let _him_ close enough that any intimacy had to be regarded as precious.)

Marcy, he knew, had been serious about their night being a one-time, Christmas-present kind of affair, a cut above the "hook-up" but definitely no strings. She knew he was going back to Santa Barbara in a few months and she knew whatever happened between them would start and end in Orange Beach during his stay.

Didn't make him feel any better about it. Made discussing Juliet after the act seem even stranger.

But the truth was, he wouldn't re-do the night any other way. From the time they spent in mutual pleasure to the time she spent skewering him with logical questions, he could regret none of it.

_Enough._

It was cold in the room. Daytime temperatures had been about sixty the last week or so, but the mornings were chilly and he was conscious of the thinness of the sheet covering his still-bare flesh.

In the afternoon he was supposed to go help out with a Christmas Eve dinner shindig at Salty Seas but this morning he was free. He had in mind to do some fishing off the Gulf State Park pier, during which time he hoped the fish would be so happy to get on his hook that he'd have no time to think about Juliet at all, let alone what Marcy was asking him to do.

If only he could deny the logic of her words.

One of his brief conversations with Karen Vick poked at his memory.

"_You're all right?"_

"_Yes, Chief."_

"_Physically?"_

"_Yes. This isn't about my health."_

"_Good," she said, and her relief was unmistakable, which he appreciated. But then she asked, "Have you talked to O'Hara yet?" _

_He was silent._

_She added, "She asks about you regularly. It's been three weeks. My four-minute phone calls from you aren't telling her what she needs to know."_

"_What does she need to know?" he asked with some reluctance._

"_Carlton. Your partner _needs_ to hear from you."_

"_She will," he said, but he wasn't about to specify when. "You can tell her I'm fine."_

"_You should tell her yourself." It sounded like an order._

_But it was an order she had no right to give."Chief, if there's nothing else related to cases, I'll let you get back to work."_

The frustration was palpable in her tone as she agreed there were no more police-related matters to discuss, but a week later, he made his call early in the morning before she got in, so he only had to leave voicemail. In the call after that, she didn't bring Juliet up. Much.

Still, dammit, Karen was right, just like Marcy was right. He had to give Juliet some kind of response.

But not right this minute. Shower and coffee first, then fishing, then any number of stalling tactics, then…

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Where are you? Are you okay?_

That was her very first text, the Monday morning she and Karen learned he was gone.

_Talk to me, partner. I'm worried about you._

Second text, later that day.

_Carlton, please call me, even if it's just to say butt out. You taking off for five months is pretty… well, it's pretty shocking, and I really want to hear from you._

Voicemail, late that night.

She kept up the messages and voicemails for the next week, sometimes angry, sometimes flat-out worried, and if he'd listened every day he'd have weakened almost immediately.

But he only listened after he'd been gone a full week, and that was bad enough. He didn't want his phone's GPS to be tracked, not that he thought anyone cared enough to do that, except—as he'd told Marcy—Spencer out of nosiness.

Juliet cajoled, she insisted, she demanded. She threatened.

She sounded defeated after three weeks, but she didn't give up. Her texts changed.

_Good morning… thinking about you._

_Missed you at Starbucks—the manager discounted ventis for the day!_

_I wish you could see Buzz's new haircut. He won't let me take a picture and he said Francie was very sorry she'd tried to save barber money._

_Carlton, you probably think I'm a nag, but I really miss you. Please call me._ _Please_.

He would listen late at night, the sound of the ocean reminding him of home, and his heart would ache and he just… wanted her. Wanted to see her, smell her, brush against her (always an accident, but never a bad thing).

_I have to get over you_, he told her silently, sending the message across two thousand miles of darkness. _Please let me get over you_.

The fishing was good this morning, and the others on the pier were affable but precisely as standoffish as he needed. One of the men was probably scoping out possible pockets to pick, and there was a too-slouchy, saggy-pantsed teen pacing up and down the pier whom Carlton really wanted to pack off to military school, but no one bothered him or anyone else. Good thing, too; he hadn't carried his gun out in public since the first week he'd been here.

The sun was bright, the breeze brisk, the smell of salt and sound of gulls comforting and familiar. Carlton gazed down the shoreline at the hotels and condos, at the empty beach, and was glad to be where he was, in relative solitude at this time when everyone seemed to think solitude was the worst possible thing for a person.

Solitude was where _he_ functioned best.

That is, next to the times he spent with Juliet, working a case or sitting still during a stakeout or just having coffee between taking witness statements.

_SHUT UP, you pathetic whiny ass. _

He offered most of the fish he caught to the nearest fisherman. He kept a couple for grilling tomorrow and the day after, but generally he fished because he _liked_ it, not because he could possibly eat as many of the fish which became attached to his hook.

Back at the condo, sitting on the deck and carefully cleaning his catch, the morning sun warming him despite the cool breeze, he drank from a steaming thermal mug of coffee and juggled memories of Marcy amid memories of their night, their talk, and of course, Juliet.

Always Juliet.

For years, Juliet.

_What if I'm just hanging on to the familiarity of hope? What if there's no real substance to my feelings for her?_

_Well, moron, that's why you've been here over two months. To figure it the hell out_.

He put the fish away, washed up, drank more coffee, stalled, pondered, stalled, had some lunch, drank more coffee, stalled, and finally in complete exasperation with himself, got his cell phone out from the bedside drawer, turned it on, waited as it slowly came to life, and fired up the email module.

_O'Hara._

No… _O'Hara_ wasn't right. This wasn't business. Backspace.

_Juliet,  
__Thank you for all your messages, partner. I'm fine and will be home in the spring. I hope you have the best, happiest Christmas of your life.  
__C._

He stared at it awhile.

It met Marcy's criteria: _I'm okay, thanks for asking, carry on_. Whether it would meet Juliet's criteria—whether Juliet even _had_ any criteria—he might not ever know.

He pressed _send_, waited to be sure it was gone, and turned the phone off again.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

At Salty Seas, Dave's wife Bets shanghaied him immediately to peel potatoes. They were expecting a crowd for their annual "Christmas Eve And I Don't Wanna Cook" bash, and he'd made the mistake of revealing he'd be at loose ends while he was in town.

He didn't mind, though. He preferred keeping busy, and since chasing criminals was out and Marcy had declined the offer of armed security for the night, peeling potatoes was fine.

Besides, he was Irish. He and potatoes went way back.

Marcy was in and out, tending the slow afternoon business at the bar as well as helping where she could in the kitchen. She gave him a warm smile, and he gave her one back, but it felt very _very_ odd to see her now, dressed and untouchable, and the guilt came washing back.

Guilt that he'd used her.

Because he was a selfish, worthless son of a bitch.

Dave came to stand beside him, drying off a large pot. "So."

Carlton eyed him. "Hey."

"You a decent guy?"

Carlton studied the short dark man before him. Ex-fighter, looked like, strong and muscled despite the years creeping up on him. "I think so."

"You're a cop, I heard. Any good at it?"

"I do all right." He didn't know why he didn't trot out his rank with the SBPD. "And I have high standards."

"Glad to hear that," Dave said far too casually, "because so do I."

Carlton felt chilly. "Meaning?" He doubted this was about the quality of his potato peeling.

Dave lowered his voice. "Marcy doesn't go home with customers very often. I just want to be sure you're the kind of customer it's okay for her to go home with. You know?"

_It's a little late to be worried about the barn and the horses now_, he thought, but dialed back the icy glare he knew he was capable of, because this was Dave's turf and Marcy was _his_ partner. "Look, you're more than a little out of line here."

"Yes, you are," Marcy said firmly from behind them both, "and I don't even have to know exactly what Dave said." She elbowed her way between them, pushing more at Dave than Lassiter. "Dave? Sweetie? I'm over forty. Back down, and back off." Her smile was brilliant.

Dave only laughed. "Nothing wrong with being overprotective of my semi-sister."

"Go boil something," she said succinctly, and he went away with a "nothing's wrong" nod to Lassiter.

"Hi," he said mildly, resuming his peeling.

"Hi. I was about to come over and ask if you were freaking out, but I see Dave got to you first." Her gaze was clear and her manner untroubled.

Dammit; women could always read his moods. "I'm a _little_ freaked out," he admitted, adding in a near-whisper, "I don't normally do what I did and I've never talked about a woman while lying in bed with another one."

Marcy grinned. "Well, you were pretty good at the former and I kinda badgered you into the latter."

He looked resolutely at the potatoes. "You have every right to think I'm a callous bastard."

"Interesting. Any clue why I don't?" She leaned forward, elbows on the counter.

"Don't be so… understanding," he muttered.

But like Dave, she only laughed. "I told you. Christmas present. I wanted to be with you, I think we both had a good time, I have no expectations, and I absolutely love to give unsolicited advice. On that note," she went on smoothly, "did you do it?"

"What?"

"That thing I told you to do in no uncertain terms. Did you contact Juliet?"

Carlton sighed. "Yes."

Marcy beamed at him. "Excellent. What did she say?"

"I don't know. I turned off the phone as soon as I sent the email."

"Well, check it!" Her tone suggested he was at least three-quarters idiot.

"It's at the condo," he protested. "I'm trying not to use it much."

"D'oh! You… you… you paranoid Californian!"

"Don't call me that." When she raised her eyebrows, he elucidated, "Californian."

Laughing, she poked at his arm. "You said you were born and raised there, though I admit you don't look it. Anyway, doofus, the whole point of the message was to foster communication, not have you fire off a one-shot and then run away."

"I do not run away," he said with asperity. "I am an officer of the law and head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department."

"Mmm-hmm. Last time I checked, _officer_, you were also 2000 miles away from home because of a _girl_," she retorted. "I should make you leave right now to get that phone."

"Make up your mind, _bartender_. You want potatoes or drama?"

"_I_ want potatoes!" Bets interjected, passing with a bucket of shrimp. "Or there _will_ be drama!"

Marcy laughed and Carlton couldn't suppress a grin, and after another whisper that he was a complete wuss, she left him alone.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He got back to the condo sometime before midnight, still buzzed by the noise and the food and the… camaraderie. How he'd felt comfortable among these near-strangers. How he'd simply had a good time.

Juliet was never far out of his thoughts—she'd have had a good time tonight too—but there were benefits to having run away from home. Being out of his element was forcing him to remember, or maybe more accurately, to _learn_, that he could be something other than a gun-toting, job-obsessed cop with no social future.

When he got back to Santa Barbara, he'd have to—he hesitated to think it fully—look into considering the possibility of _maybe_ getting some more… therapy.

He stood on the deck, staring out at the black ocean, and then up to the starry sky.

Christmas Eve.

Yeah.

Not so bad.

The phone was in his hand, and he turned it on after a long silent moment.

It _was_ Christmas Eve. She had her own social obligations and friends—and Spencer. So far as he knew she hadn't planned to go to Miami for the holidays, but certainly she was with her boyfriend. There'd be no time to answer emails from the strange and socially awkward partner who'd abandoned her.

For a moment he considered what it would be like if he'd already waited too long—if Marcy's prediction that Juliet would be permanently angry about his silence came to pass.

The screen lit up.

_New email. _

He warned himself to stay calm. She might tell him off. She might be polite. She might be so brief that her mood would be completely unreadable. It might be an offer for a time-share, or worse, a Viagra spam forwarded by Spencer.

_Oh Carlton, I AM now having the best, happiest Christmas of my life, because you emailed me. Please do it again. I really miss you, and I hope wherever you are, you have a wonderful day and come home soon where you belong. Nothing is the same without you or will be until you come through those station doors. Merry Christmas and please PLEASE let me hear from you again_.

After a few seconds his heart re-started, and he closed his eyes, allowing the chilly ocean breeze to wrap around him… and yet he wasn't cold.

The words were still clear in his head, and the stubborn little corner of his heart where hope still thrived against all odds would not allow him to consider her message anything like "polite" or "unreadable."

Certainly she was only missing her friend and partner, but there was no way to doubt the strength of _those_ feelings she had for him.

Not that he ever had, really.

Much.

Certainly his once-weekly email/text checks had reinforced it… but there was something pretty powerful about this particular message.

Carlton sighed and got up to lean against the cold metal railing, the phone still in one hand as he faced the vast dark ocean, the sound of the waves steady and soothing.

_Maybe you're just a little tipsy and in a weird mood because of Marcy—both being with her and listening to her 'advice.'_

_And maybe March 18 is too soon to go back home._

Hell, maybe he was a permanent idiot and he should look for a job down here.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Bets and Dave had invited him to their house for Christmas day dinner, and Marcy—who would be there with her sister and aunt Marilee—had suggested he would it find it vastly entertaining. But in the morning, which dawned gray and chilly, he simply didn't want to be around anyone else, so he called and left a message with one of their teenagers. Something vague.

He walked along the beach for a long time, relentlessly going over cold cases from memory, replaying hostage scenarios, reviewing profiling techniques.

Exchanging cordial Christmas greetings with the few people he passed on the damp sand, he took the time to silently assess the likelihood of each of them being a danger to society based on clothing, body language, choice of greeting, and eye-contact intensity.

He was himself partly a lunatic for doing so, he suspected, but it kept his mind off the thing he wanted it kept off of until he finally trudged back to the condo at lunchtime to see about grilling the fish he'd caught yesterday.

The condo's landline was ringing, and he already knew it was Marcy.

"What did she say?" was her immediate question.

"Merry Christmas," he said affably.

"Carlton. I know you checked your email and I know she answered. What did she say?"

"Merry Christmas," he repeated.

"Carlton. Don't make me send Dave over there, and I hope you didn't bail on us because of me."

"No. I'm just… over-socialized after yesterday."

"Hmmm. Anyway, _what the hell_ _did she_ _say_?"

He sighed. "It was good."

She badgered him until he told her exactly what the email said, and he didn't have to turn the phone on to refresh his memory, either.

Marcy's approval was clear. "That is a very good sign."

"It's no sign. It just means she misses the person she's spent most of the last seven years with."

"Right—the guy you seem to think she wouldn't miss at all. Now you have to follow up."

"The hell I do."

"Yes, the hell you do. You don't have to do it today. I'll grant you that leeway. But in the next few days, you have to follow up."

"How about I _hang_ up, and we call it a draw?"

He could almost see her smirk before she shot back, "Listen, buddy. The codicil to our private agreement—"

"Codicil!" he protested. "You said no strings—"

"This is for your own good. The codicil grants me the leeway to nag you into keeping your friendship and partnership alive and well. Actually it grants me the leeway to nag you, period. You _will_ return her message within the next few days."

He felt mutinously stubborn, because this was past being embarrassing.

"Carlton," she said more softly. "If we're going to be anything at all, let it be friends. And let your new friend guide you down a path she is all too damn familiar with, okay?"

Carlton managed grudging acceptance, and later, as he grilled his fish for lunch, he wondered if another part of the codicil involved Marcy also believing she had the right to push him to the very precipice of a ledge and make him do jumping jacks.

He didn't _want_ to have contact with Juliet.

(He wanted to be with her all the time, in any form.)

He wanted to be _separate_. Independent. A fortress of solitude.

(He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and hold her forever.)

He wanted to _forget_ Juliet and his stupid yearnings.

(He yearned.)

Damn Marcy.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3: Weakness

**CHAPTER THREE: Weakness**

**. . . .  
****. . .**

He lasted three days.

Three days of dodging Marcy, who couldn't really be dodged because she knew she was being dodged. Besides, he was still going to the Salty Seas most days for a meal or an after-dinner drink, and thus was frequently in her crosshairs.

On the 28th, sitting in the fading afternoon light out on the condo deck, the ocean a flat blue mirror before him, Carlton turned on the phone, ostensibly to check _all_ of his messages, not just the ones which Juliet might—or _might not_—have sent.

(_Sure, buddy_._) _

Juliet had emailed and texted. She still seemed very happy he'd gotten in touch, and he knew that even without Marcy's prodding, these messages alone would have broken his resolve to stay distant.

_It's just me_, he wrote (email, not text; texting was far too immediate, even if she was using the same device for both like he was, and what he would do if she answered via text, he didn't know). _Nothing to get excited about. Same crabby cop as always_**. **_Keep my prickly disposition in mind and the thrill will be gone in no time_**.**

Leaving the phone on the deck table, he went back into the condo and made a drink as slowly as he could. Then he just as slowly made a sandwich to go with it, slowly washed a plate left out from lunch, slowly dried it off, slowly put it away, and by the time he slowly went back to the deck all of seven minutes had gone by.

She had already answered his email.

_How can I not be thrilled to hear from you? Twice in four days! And I MISS that prickly disposition. You and your crabby cop ways keep me grounded, partner. March 18 is too far away. Can't you make it December 29th instead?_

For a moment, Carlton held his breath.

_Nope. You've made it this far, haven't you?_

Hell, it might as well be texting, as fast as she answered.

_Barely. You might be having a good time without me, but I feel like I'm going insane without you_**.**

Funny; he'd been going insane while he was there _with_ her. He made himself wait two full minutes before answering. _You know me better than that, O'Hara: I rarely have a good time doing anything. __And __leave the insanity to Spencer. "Serenity NOW," right?_

Again, her email reply was nearly immediate.

(Of course he wouldn't have known that if he weren't hitting "check for new messages" every six seconds.)

_His insanity is contagious, and not in a good way. Come back soon, Carlton. Where are you?_

He debated. He didn't want to ignore the question completely, but he didn't want to plant any clues either.

_By the seashore, just like you. How's McNab's hair these days?_

It took her a little longer. He wondered if she was annoyed by the evasion, or merely calculating which seashore he might mean. She was a detective, after all.

_Still crooked, you KNOW I'm going to ask which seashore, and damn, we just got a homicide call, so I'll have to pester you later. Don't disappear again!_

Carlton felt both disappointed and relieved: the pressure was gone, but on the other hand, _she_ was gone too. He send back a noncommittal warning to be safe while kicking ass authoritatively, and turned the phone off again. Then he took it down to his car and locked it in his glove compartment.

Keeping it that far away would slow him down at least a _little_ when he next gave in to the impulse to contact her.

**. . . .**  
**. . .**

The waitress put a plate of golden-battered fried shrimp in front of Carlton, flashing a smile before she left him alone.

But Marcy slid into the opposite chair, snagged a fry, and smiled far too innocently. "Ready for the daily inquisition?"

When he gave her his best baleful look, she ate the fry and reached for his beer.

Carlton pulled it out of the way. "I emailed her."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, and put up her hand for a high-five.

He stared at it pointedly. "You can put _that_ down right now."

"Oh, how you resist good things," she said impatiently. "Tell me everything."

"Marcy, we are not junior high girls giggling about who likes whom. I'm 43, I'm divorced, I'm an officer of the law and a—"

She interrupted with, "Pishwah! I'm 41, _I'm_ divorced; now what did she say?"

The last thing he expected to do was laugh, and yet he did, although he tried valiantly to stop as soon as he started.

Marcy just waited him out, grinning like a maniac, and honestly, if he hadn't been hopelessly bonkers for Juliet O'Hara, he could see pursuing this woman… and pretty damned far.

So he told her. He tried to tell her in summary form but she was relentless and had to know every word, every bit of punctuation. (Fortunately she didn't think to tease him for having it all memorized.)

"Do you want to supervise the next time?" he asked a bit snarkily.

"Maybe. I'm just glad to hear you admit there'll _be_ a next time."

"Don't be smug. And I am most certainly _not_ admitting there'll be a next time."

"New Year's Eve," she suggested.

"What? No. She'll be out with her boyfriend."

"So? You'll merely be… offering a seasonal greeting."

"I can do that on New Year's Day."

As if he hadn't spoken, she exclaimed, "Oooh, you should call her."

"No," he said flatly.

"Carlton."

"Marcy, enough. I did what you suggested; I let her know I was okay. I'll do it again in a couple of weeks, and then a couple of weeks after that, and when I get home she probably _won't_ give me a black eye, and I can get back to being over her."

"Yeah, like you're ever going to get over her."

"I'm _trying_," he protested. "I'd be a lot further along if you hadn't made it your mission to meddle!"

"Meddle my ass—you know you're a lost cause!"

She was far too amused for his tastes, and he snapped, "Thanks for the encouragement!"

Again she ignored him. "I want to know more about this boyfriend. What kind of opposition is he, really?"

Carlton put his head in his hands, sighing. "You're killing me."

"We'll talk later," she assured him with a gleam in her dark eyes. "After you've had a few more beers."

Instead (and not without intent) he talked fishing for awhile with Bob and Adam, guys he'd been out on "the high seas" with before, and when Adam mentioned they had room on the boat if he wanted to meet them at six a.m. for an overnight trip, he said yes without hesitation.

He'd be away from Marcy's prodding, he'd have reduced opportunities to dwell in his own head, and most importantly, he'd be away from the phone and its related temptation.

And oh yeah, he'd enjoy the fishing, too.

Marcy gave him a knowing look when he told her he'd be away. She didn't flat-out call him a chicken, but he could swear he heard faint clucking as she walked off.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

It was downright cold out on the water at half past six in the pre-dawn light, but his fishing companions were unfazed, a lively bunch all—especially with plenty of hot coffee in large thermoses to jumpstart their brains.

Bob and Adam were a little like Spencer and Guster, he mused, only much less joined-at-the-hip. Their repartee was fast and furious but the difference was that it wasn't all inside jokes. He could shake his head and laugh at their antics and never felt like he (along with everyone else in earshot) was excluded from their private history.

Both were in their early sixties; Bob had retired from the stock market world while things were still good, Adam was retired from the military, and both men had a lot of free time. Adam said it was because Bob's wife threw him out of the house daily and his own wife didn't want Bob to be lonely; Bob said it was the other way around and by the way, Adam was an idiot.

"Funny, I assumed you were both divorced," Carlton said smoothly. "Several times apiece."

Bob retorted, "Well, you know what happens when you make assumptions."

Adam got in his shot first: "Yeah. Bob looks like an ass."

Both men laughed, and Carlton couldn't help but like them (that alone was a bit unusual for him).

The wind was cold, cutting into his skin like little knives, but he felt invigorated. There were three other fishermen along for the trip, and sleeping arrangements were sketchy, but he'd been a cop long enough to know how to sleep whenever and wherever sleep could be attained. Except at home in his own bed; there it was often a struggle.

He was actually looking forward to sleeping on the boat to the rhythm of the waves tonight.

Tuning in again to the running dialogue between Bob and Adam as they half-argued about how far out to take the boat before the fishing started, he was in time to hear them bring up an ex-sea captain they'd taken out the month before.

"He was a big guy. Almost couldn't get down below without bending in half," Adam commented. He glanced at Carlton. "You're what, six-two? This guy was six-ten at least."

Bob declared, "He was Captain… Baldy... Amish Beard Man… Gigantor!"

Adam sighed. "That name? Is exactly how dumb you are."

Once again they laughed at themselves—and Carlton _still_ liked them.

"He told us that when he was a kid, he had a bunny which would jump on chickens, slit their throats and drink their blood."

Carlton inquired without hesitation, "Why didn't they just get her a water bottle?"

Bob and Adam howled, and honestly, it had been far too long since he'd simply been able to enjoy being around other people. Even his Civil War reenactment group had stopped being fun a long time ago—too many dilettantes instead of genuinely interested participants. And although it was his nature to take charge of things, he thought now and then it might be nice to not _have_ to—for people to do what they were supposed to do out of interest and not obligation.

"Bob, tell me the truth."

"My hand tastes like toilet."

"Aw, man, why do you say things like that? Young Lassiter here could be delicate."

While Carlton was rolling his eyes, Bob retorted, "He's a cop. No room for delicate in that line of work."

"Yeah, but you don't know what kind of cop he is. Maybe his specialty is lingerie model security inspection."

"That's not actually a service the taxpayers want us to provide," Carlton said, "despite how incredibly satisfying it might be."

Adam dismissed this. "Well, I can dream, can't I? Because that's what makes this country great, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Bob agreed. "That and rifles."

It went on like that for hours—with fishing too, of course—and although Juliet of course remained under his skin, prickling at him to get in touch, to go home, _to be with her_, he considered being out on the ocean in the cold December air with these clowns to be a very good use of his time.

Because _she didn't want him_ to be with her the way he wanted to be with her, and never would, and the twelve-year-old boy in him thought it would be entirely fair to whack Marcy with one of the redfish he caught as a punishment for stirring up his aching heart again.

At the end of their long day, he slept out on the deck under the stars, bundled up tight in a sleeping bag with extra blankets—and the sound and gentle rocking of the waves all around him.

He dreamed of Juliet, and being home, and in the few moments before he fully awoke, he imagined what it would be like if it came true, and lasted forever.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

The Salty Seas annual New Year's Eve party, Marcy promised him, was always fun. Sure, he could go down to the Flora-Bama, or over to Lulu's at Homeport, but the former would be a different flavor of rowdy and the latter would be packed with strangers and therefore he should stick with the devil he knew. Right?

He said he'd been considering staying put at the condo.

She said, "You're coming here. That is, unless you're planning to spend the night on the phone with Juliet."

"I'll be along by nine," he said grimly.

Marcy laughed and laughed but he spoke the truth, for he had no intention of calling Juliet and he had not yet taken the phone out of his glove compartment.

He drank a little too much—just a little—and listened to more of Bob and Adam's stories; he arm-wrestled Dave (they tied it up) and then Bets (she won) and Marcy (he won, dammit). They sang _Auld Lang Syne_ and had another toast and Marcy gave him a quick light kiss which meant nothing because he didn't _want_ it to mean anything and she didn't want him to think _she_ thought it meant anything, and he knew this with his sixth sometimes-I-do-have-a-clue sense.

"You'll call her, right?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Don't make me smack you. _Call_ her."

"No, Marcy. I told you. It doesn't help me to stay in contact with her."

"It doesn't seem to be helping you to stay _out_ of contact with her either."

"Only because you keep nagging me."

"Carlton, look," she said with finality, "the simple truth is, if you were better off without her, my nagging would be falling on truly deaf ears—and a deaf heart."

He stared at her, and Marcy smiled. "Dammit."

"That's my boy." She patted him on the arm. "Now go play darts. Adam needs to be taken down a notch."

He left shortly after one when her attention was elsewhere, and although he did get the phone out of the glove compartment when he pulled up at the condo, he assured himself it was only because tomorrow he had to make an obligatory call to his mother.

Despite Marcy's assessment, it wasn't as if he was planning to contact _Juliet_—besides, it wasn't even midnight yet in Santa Barbara. Whatever she was doing, she was having fun and definitely didn't need to hear from _him_.

Really, he should just go to bed. That was sensible. He was a little out of sorts anyway.

He took a shower and made some toast, watched a little TV coverage of New Year's bashes elsewhere, and just after two a.m. he gave up the last of his half-hearted denials and turned the phone on.

Juliet had sent several emails while he was away, reminding him of her admonition for him to not disappear. She gave him the highlights of the homicide she'd been called to, said Buzz was missing him something awful, and complained that her temporary partner from Ojai was too nice (Carlton knew the guy slightly and agreed completely, but then other than Juliet, he tended not to trust people who seemed trustworthy, and he especially didn't trust any guy assigned to _his_ partner).

_Happy New Year, Juliet._

He sent it as a text, because tonight of all nights it wouldn't matter. She would definitely not see it until later, and … holy crap, she was already responding.

_You too, Carlton! Is it midnight where you are?_

Sly. He let her have this one. _Two hours ago. So far the new year doesn't suck_.

_Two hours? Then you are much too far away. Home by the 2nd?_

He had to smile. _What's your hurry?_

_I miss you._

_Never thought of you as a masochist, O'Hara._

_Well, I never thought of you as a sadist!_

Wow. He could not understand why she was so adamant about… _him_.

_Go back to partying. I just wanted to check in._

_I'm not partying. Are you?_

Ignore that. _No Spencer-Guster festivities tonight?_

_I have a cold. :-( Wasn't up to any kind of festivities._

He felt immediate concern, as well as relief she hadn't been pressured into a party by the asshat.

_You going to be OK? You should rest._

_I am NOT resting when I can be talking to you instead. How are you?_

He cursed himself for the heat he felt in his cheeks.

_Me? Fine. Really. Not even a hangnail._

Just a little windburn from the fishing trip and a moderate headache from the Salty Seas party... and oh yeah, his continual state of lovesickness.

_Good. I've been worried about you._

Great, now he felt guilty (and deservedly so).

_Sorry. I told the Chief I was fine the first time I called her_.

_I know. _

Before he could decide what to say next, another text came through.

_Why didn't I get a call too?_

Carlton's heart twisted a little.

_Carlton?_

_I'm sorry. I wasn't in a good place then._

_Are you in a better place now?_

Was he? He _had_ been. Or he'd been really excellently deluding himself to that effect. Marcy had essentially ripped off the blinders with a few well-phrased questions.

He took too long to answer.

She texted: _Is that a hard question?_

_Yes. And yes._

_What can I do to help?_

"Oh, God, woman," he said aloud. He couldn't tell her that. His phone would melt.

_Please talk to me. I need to know you know you CAN._

_I do know I can. _

He just… _couldn't_. How to make her understand without either spelling it out or shutting her out?

_I don't think I've ever missed anyone the way I miss you, you know. It surprises me every day._

Anyone in the room would have seen Carlton's eyes grow wide and his jaw drop—and heard his heart hammering in his chest.

Without asking his permission, his fingers keyed a new text.

_Funny, it doesn't surprise me at all how much I miss you_.

Now it was her turn to take too long to answer, but he was frozen, staring at the screen, both willing it to light up and wishing he hadn't contacted her at all.

_Carlton._

That was it. He sent back a question mark.

Her response blew him away.

_Why are we apart?_

He breathed deeply, his heart still thundering along without exploding. _Because I'm an idiot. Because I fell in love with you and then was too cowardly to do anything about it, and while I was dicking around avoiding going after you, Spencer moved in, and you seem so utterly blinded by the smoke he blows but it doesn't matter, because clearly he's what you want, and if you were ever going to be interested in me it would have happened a long time ago and this is stupid and I'm stupid and I need to turn off this damn phone now and send Karen my resignation via certified mail ASAP_.

But while the crazy-ass part of his mind was seriously contemplating sending _that_ text, another message came through from Juliet.

_I don't want us to be apart anymore, Carlton. That's what I've learned since you left._

_Juliet, you're not well._

_I'm well enough to know what's important to me: you_.

He swallowed. He couldn't move his fingers.

_I'm scaring you, aren't I?_

_Yes._

_But you're still there._

_Yes._

_Where is there?_

_Far away._

_Why so far?_

_To clear my head._

_From me?_

Tick. Tick. Tick.

_Yes._

Ah hell. TOO MUCH.

_We need to talk._

_We are._

_I mean TALK._

_No. _

_Carlton, please._

_Don't say please._

_Why not? Because you can't say no?_

_Yes._

_Please. Please. Please._

_Stop._

_Pleasepleasepleaseplease pleasepleasepleaseplease!_

Somehow, within the terror, he felt a smile coming along.

_O'Hara. You don't know what you're saying. You're feverish._

_Congestion is not feverish, and I know this: I miss you. I need you. I care about you and I want to talk to you and see you and be with you again._

Killing. Him.

_And I want to hear your voice so badly. Please, Carlton_.

He was not ready. He was not ready.

He. Was not. Ready.

There was still every, every, every likelihood she only meant their friendship, her routine, the familiar. She could not mean what his ricocheting heart so desperately wanted to read into these words on his screen.

_I'm going to blow my nose and get some water and then, please, please, please, you'll call me and I'll finally, finally hear your voice and tell you how much you mean to me. OK?_

That was it.

_He had to stop this madness_. He had to tell her _no_, he had to turn off the phone, he had to stomp on the battery, he had to prepare that resignation letter, he had to drink himself into a stupor and get the hell on with his pathetic excuse for a life.

Enough.

He sent: _OK_.

For the next two minutes—apart from the brief moments of giddiness at her response of a smiley face with exclamation points—he lectured himself for his idiocy, he warned himself not to give anything more away than he already stupidly had, and he also suggested to himself sternly that he jump off the balcony and walk the beach until he hit Fort Morgan—and then keep going, right into the gulf.

But no. No, for he was Idiotman! Captain of a thousand social screwups! Master of moronitude!

His fingers were shaking as he found her number in his contacts list and pressed the button.

It rang only once, but the ring seemed to last for seven or eight hours.

"Well, hey there, Lassie," drawled the unmistakable voice of Shawn Asshat Spencer. "Happy new year, buddy!"

And.

Everything.

Stopped.

In one motion he shut the phone off and threw it as hard as he could across the room. It hit the far wall, left a little dent in the plaster, and bounced away to skitter across the tile floor and slide under the heavy wood bookcase.

He hoped he would never see it again.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4: The Freeze Before The Thaw

**CHAPTER FOUR: The Freeze Before The Thaw**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He shut down.

He stayed away from people and didn't answer the landline (it was only Marcy and he absolutely could _not_ talk to her yet).

He walked the beach, he went back to Fort Morgan and walked through the deserted arched casemates, and with no one around to stop him he walked the very edge of the high wall of the star-shaped perimeter, looking down into the empty green center of the fort. Later in the month there would be a reenactment here of Civil War events, and he intended to be among the spectators (if only to privately critique their paraphernalia and attention to detail).

For now it was so very quiet; even the sound of the nearby ocean seemed muffled.

He felt muffled too. He fit there, part of the stone and the solitude.

At the close of the first week of the new year, with the cell phone still lurking somewhere under the bookcase, he finally ventured into the Salty Seas during the dinner hour, when Marcy would be far too busy to bother with him. He'd accepted he'd have to tell her something, because she wasn't the kind to give up, but there was no sense rushing into it.

"Carlton," she exclaimed as soon as she saw him, even though he was being seated at a table on the opposite side of the room from the bar.

He waved and took the chair which faced away from her, but she was unfazed by this and came to him ten seconds later, a bottle of vodka in one hand—and a puzzled regular back at the bar asking plaintively, "Hey, what about my drink?"

"Carlton," she repeated, and sat down across from him. "You've been avoiding me."

"Yes, I have." He glanced at the menu.

"Which means you—oh God, you look like hell. What went wrong?"

Now he met her dark gaze squarely. "I really don't _want_ to talk about this, you know."

"I know, but—" She paused as Dave came over to pointedly collect the vodka bottle so he could shut the whining customer up. "I know," she repeated, "but you're going to, or you wouldn't have come in. You called her?"

Carlton steeled himself. He could do this: he was a badass cop. "I texted her. She said… things I wanted to interpret in a specific way. She convinced me to call her. I called, and her _boyfriend_ answered. I'm done."

There, that wasn't so hard. _Just pretend it happened to someone else_.

Marcy was frowning. "Wait. You mean… wait. Start over."

"No, thank you."

One of the waitresses appeared, but as he was about to order, Marcy told her to come back in a tone which added _or I'll fire you_. The waitress hurried off.

"So you were texting… and it was going well?"

He _could_ do this. Cool, collected, calm. "I was wrong."

"Okay, but… no, wait. You had the impression she… was… giving you a green light?"

Carlton looked at her. He wasn't going to say it. Saying it would give the idiocy more credence.

Marcy went on slowly, "And she talked you into calling her but… well, how much time passed between the two events?"

"None. He answered."

"Well… what did he say?"

"Happy New Year," he said acidly.

She blinked. "And what did you say?"

"Nothing. I pitched the phone across the room. Are we done now?" He looked around for the waitress.

"No, we are _not_ done. That was after you left here?"

He was starting to feel muffled again. "I'd like some dinner, Marcy."

"Where was she at the time? Has she contacted you since?"

"I suppose I could go over to Wintzell's. The breading on their catfish is a little better than yours."

"Oh, shut up. You're not going anywhere. You wouldn't be here at all if you didn't know it was _time_ to talk about this." She put her elbows on the table and studied him. "What have her messages said since then?"

Shrugging, he sat back in the chair, arms folded. He would not flee, but he wouldn't make it easy either.

"You haven't checked," she deduced. "Carlton, dammit, you are _the_ most stubborn… geez. Look, just tell me what happened and we can get back to you being pissed off after that, okay?"

"I told you. I texted her. She was at home with a cold. We went back and forth and I thought some pretty stupid things about what she was saying. She—"

"Like what? What was she saying?"

"Things I took the wrong way. Things I misinterpreted."

"How do you _know_ you misinterpreted them?"

"Because her boyfriend was there the whole time, Marcy," he ground out. "Because he was either there watching the whole exchange, maybe telling her what to say, or God forbid, he was the one doing the texting."

Her frown deepened. "But she wanted you to call her."

"Yes. Either because she realized I was misinterpreting or because the asshat wanted his big laugh payoff."

She tapped on the table with her fingernails, puzzling over this. "Okay, I really need to know more about the asshat."

"I told you that, too. Self-aggrandizing, manipulative narcissist. Screws with people because he _can_."

"But if he was there the whole time, that makes Juliet… oh, God, Carlton, have you left out the detail where the woman you're in love with is an evil bitch?"

He had just taken a sip of his ice water, and nearly choked on it now. "No! Not even with PMS and caffeine withdrawal."

"Well… well, then she can't have been letting the asshat direct the conversation. You know that."

Carlton just stared at her, because he'd had a week to mash this all up in his head. "Doesn't mean he wasn't there. In fact, he _had_ to be right there with her. And she never would have asked me to call her to discuss what _I_ stupidly thought we were going to discuss if he'd been at her side. _You_ know _that_."

Marcy rubbed her temples. "This is crazy. Get the phone and check the messages."

"Hell. No."

"God, I could smack you!" There was enough heat in her words to make it clear how serious she was. "Carlton, you _have_ to check."

"No, Marcy, actually I don't." Because he would rather eat glass. With hot sauce and sprinkles of gravel.

Frustrated, she scooted her chair closer. "So what's the plan then? You go back home in March posing as the Ice King? No. You need to know where you stand, and it has to be now. Either this _is_ exactly what you fear—his manipulation or her botched attempt to clear the air—or it's a huge ungodly accident, and if it's an accident, she must be going insane worrying about you now." She huffed. "And if it turns out he stole her phone and faked the whole conversation, she for _damn_ sure needs to know that."

Carlton met her gaze, outwardly impassive (he hoped) and inwardly a huge tornado of emotion.

"Carlton," she said softly. "Your eyes give so much away."

He let out a breath, and felt unbelievably weary. "I don't have to go back there at all."

Marcy's jaw dropped. "Seriously? You'd close the door so completely? Never even _consider_ finding out what really happened?"

Yeah…. that sounded good.

She was incredulous. "You know what? Maybe I've misjudged your level of intelligence all this time, as well as your level of decency." She stood and stared down at him, shaking her head. "You said this woman was your best friend. When the hell are you going to start acting like you're a friend of _hers_?"

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_My best friend. _

He knew, and it wasn't only in the recesses of his heart but rather with the whole splintered and barely beating thing, that Juliet had _not_ been sitting back laughing about their texts while Spencer looked on. He knew she would never do that, let alone permit Spencer to tell her what to say.

But it was possible she was quietly texting him—about friendship and partnership, _nothing more_—while Spencer was goggle-eyed in front of her TV. It was possible she meant "we have to talk" only about clearing the air, and used the nose-blowing/water-fetching as a reason to get to a room Spencer wasn't in. It was possible he'd followed her. It was possible.

And Marcy was right—damn the woman to hell with detours through both Cleveland _and_ Detroit—that he had to give her the benefit of the doubt. At the very least, he needed to know the lay of the land(mines) before he went back to Santa Barbara in two months.

He could play it like he hadn't misinterpreted their conversation. He could play it as if he, too, were only talking about missing a _friend_. He could even honestly say he was so pissed off by Spencer answering that he just lost it. He simply had to leave out the part about being stunned and mortified and humiliated and all the rest of those teenaged-angst reactions.

The afternoon light off the silvery blue ocean was bright. It spilled into the living room and reflected off the chrome which trimmed the TV stand.

Carlton sat on the sofa and eyed the bookcase.

It was possible—as long as he was listing possibilities—the phone was broken. He'd spackled over the dent in the wall and it looked pretty good, although he would probably confess to the realtor that he'd dented it. But the phone might have been damaged by the force of the impact. And the subsequent… multiple… bounces.

_Well then, Pollyanna, if it's broken then you won't have to call her, will you?_

Dammit.

It took a little creativity; his arm wouldn't fit under the heavy bookcase but with his penlight and a broom handle he was able to see and coax out the dusty phone.

_I don't want to do this._

Yeah. Too bad.

He got to his feet and went to pour a preemptive Scotch, then sat at the table and turned the foul mechanical beast on.

Hoping it would stay dark and dead, he knocked back a burning mouthful of liquid courage and waited.

But the spiteful phone, probably pissed off by his abuse of it, sprang to life.

New messages.

Seventeen new texts, eight voicemails, and five emails from Juliet.

Bastard phone.

Another dose of Scotch. Couldn't hurt nearly as much as it would help.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Come with me," he said tersely.

He had walked into the Salty Seas, grasped Marcy firmly by the arm as she stood behind the bar pouring a beer, waited impatiently while she finished and slid the mug to the customer, and then led her with speed and authority out to the parking lot and around to the side.

After setting his cell phone on speaker, he started playback of the messages. Somehow it seemed fitting to hear seagulls as a background.

The first voicemail, the most painful one, came moments after he'd gotten the Spencer-shock.

Panic in her voice. "Oh my God, Carlton, please, I am so sorry. I didn't know he was here—he let himself in while I was getting my water and then you called and I told him to leave my phone the hell alone but he ignored me and picked up and I'm so sorry, please—" In the background, Spencer could be heard asking for attention of some kind, and Juliet snapped, "Go home, Shawn, you've done enough!" She took a hitching breath. "I swear, I had no idea he came in and I asked him not to answer but he just ignored me and I couldn't get across the room in time and please, you have to talk to me, Carlton—Shawn, back off. Shawn—dammit!"

End of message. Marcy's dark eyes were wide.

The next one was time-stamped fifteen minutes later, and Juliet was more subdued. "Carlton. I threw him out. Permanently. I can't… I can't believe I put up with such… _disrespect_ all this time. I can't believe I _ever_ put you in second place behind him. My God, I'm such a stupid stupid woman and I don't deserve anything even remotely like you. And I know you, Carlton, I know you're shutting down and going into self-preservation mode but you can't, not now. Not about this. About…" she hesitated, and then her voice became stronger. "About us. About whatever we are and whatever we can be. Please don't hide from me. Please call me. I'm begging you. Please."

"Oh, Carlton, you're calling her right now," Marcy whispered. "That woman is—"

Implacable, he pressed play again. The other messages, over the next six days, were similar but shorter. Juliet was terribly upset and completely determined to get through to him. She swore she'd leave messages every day if she had to, every hour if it came to that.

The texts were briefer but no less clear. The emails were more focused but the message was the same: _Talk to me. I care about you. I miss you. I need you. Please_. She alluded to feeling physically ill from worrying about everything and said Chief Vick had sent her home twice thinking her cold was taking a turn for the worse. She also said she was nearly to the point of running his financials and tracking his phone usage, even if it meant suspension and disciplinary action should she get caught.

Marcy read the last of the texts and handed the phone back. "Why in the hell are you talking to me instead of her right now?"

Carlton slid it into his shirt pocket and pulled himself together. "Because I wanted you to hear for yourself that there is _nothing_ in there—other than the second voicemail—which suggests she's talking about anything other than _friendship_."

Marcy looked at him in disbelief and then punched him hard in the chest.

"Son of a bitch," he managed, startled by how much it hurt.

"You are a moron, Carlton Lassiter. A cowardly ostrich-y moron. Unless she's a world-class actress, that woman is in love with you, and every second you spend not talking to her is a second more that your brain cells fly out your bodacious ears and disappear into the atmosphere." She watched him rub the spot where she'd hit him and added with even more snark, "Your IQ must have dropped fifty points just in the last ten minutes."

"I have done everything you've told me to do," he shot back, "even if it wasn't as fast as you wanted, and all I have to show for it is that I've upset my _friend_ by looking out for myself. But I can't see what's wrong with looking out for myself, and _I_ know her, remember? I know she takes in strays and feels guilty if someone's unhappy and wants to fix the world. I'm just part of her world, that's all."

"Uh, it sounds to me, dumbass, like you're her _whole_ world." Marcy looked him up and down as if he were an utterly foreign and slightly unsavory creature. "Do you want _me_ to call her? Because I will."

"The _hell_ you will." He took a step back just in case she went for the phone.

"But I know her name now, see? Saw it on the screen enough. I can call out to the Santa Barbara police department and ask for Detective O'Hara and let her know exactly how to reach you. In fact," and she looked at her watch, "bet I can get that done within the next two minutes."

She headed away from him but he grabbed her arm and forced her to stay put.

"What's it going to be?" she demanded. "If you don't get in touch with her, you can consider yourself persona non grata around here. I can accept that men are clueless about women but I will not tolerate one who knows damn well what he has to do and refuses to do it out of sheer emotional cowardice."

Shaking her arm free, Marcy stalked off around the corner, leaving Carlton leaning against the wall of the Salty Seas, chest aching for more than one reason.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He drove to the west side of Perdido Pass and parked under the soaring bridge, then walked to the far end of the parking area to where the sand began. The water was especially blue here and the herons—cranky and solitary as he usually felt—seemed to like it.

They were baleful—also a familiar feeling—and gave him the stink-eye as he passed.

Early January in the middle of a weekday afternoon was a good time to be here: not as many boats going through the pass, few fisherman and even fewer tourists. The sun was still strong enough to warm the salty breeze coming off the water, and it was beautiful. As calm as… as _he_ needed to be.

He hoisted himself up to sit on the concrete wall, dangling his legs over the edge and feeling the weight of the phone in his pocket.

Like it was a five-pound rock.

He shouldn't call her now. For Juliet, it was two p.m. on a workday and she wouldn't be able to talk to him. He shouldn't text either—same reason. Email might work, but…

But he knew… this had to be voice-to-voice. And if he didn't do it now, he might as well call Vick instead to resign.

"Carlton?" She was breathless, shaky.

"Juliet." So long since he'd said her name to her.

"Oh my God, it's you. Oh, Carlton, thank God."

"I'm sorry." It sounded awkward. "I only got the phone out from under the bookcase a little while ago."

She half-laughed, half-sobbed. "I have been so worried. So sick. So—"

"I'm sorry," he said again. "You were right. I shut down. Look, I know you can't talk right now. You're probably about to arrest someone, but—"

"No," she said at once. "I took a late lunch break so I could wallow in my misery. I'm sitting on a bench out by the ocean."

Irony. "Concrete wall. Different ocean."

"Where are you? Please tell me."

"Orange Beach, Alabama."

There was a pause. "Really?"

"Who would make up Orange Beach, Alabama?"

"Good point. I've been there. My family went up when I was a kid."

"People from Miami go to Alabama on vacation?"

Juliet laughed, and he had missed that sound so damned much. "Less crime. Have you been there all along?"

"Yeah."

"Did you… mean it when you said you missed me?"

His heart skipped a few beats. "Yes. Every day. Every _hour_."

"Did you mean it when you said you left because of me?"

He struggled to find the courage. "It was... getting too hard to see you with Spencer."

Her turn for a long pause.

He asked, "Did you really end it with him?"

"Yes. God, I was so furious and so upset with him that night. I could see it all—finally, I could _see_ how nothing was ever going to change. Even if it wasn't doomed simply because of how I knew I felt about you, it could never have lasted. He cares about me but he's just not... an adult. He's not a _lot_ of things, and you... you're..." Her voice dropped to a murmur. "You're _everything_. I get it now."

"Juliet," he started, but had to stop to breathe. "I could jump off this wall into the water and wait for blue crabs to pinch me to death, you know that, right? It'd be easier than telling you how I feel about you, because telling you how I feel changes everything. It means I can't come back home unless..."

In his anxious silence, she whispered, "Unless you're sure I feel the same way too."

Carlton swallowed. "Yeah."

"Be sure," she said simply. "Come home."

His heart flat-out exploded, little bits of love and emotion flung out across the sea and into the arms of fate.

Parts of his lungs went along for the ride, but he managed to find enough air for two words. "Come here."

A long shuddering sigh escaped her. "As soon as I can."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5: Ants

**CHAPTER FIVE: Ants **

**. . . .**

**. . .**

A meteorite crashed into the Gulf of Mexico the day Juliet was set to arrive, causing a massive tidal wave which flooded the coastal states and incidentally forced her flight to be rerouted to St. Louis, but Carlton was unable to acquire a boat to get to her, so she went back home and reunited with Spencer and had his little baby asshats. Asscaps?

Carlton woke up with a start, sweating and buzzed and exhausted. It was 5:30 and he'd only slept about half an hour since midnight.

_Juliet would be here tonight._

Her flight was set to arrive just past nine p.m.; it was less than an hour's drive from the condo but he wanted to be there in plenty of time to meet her, so he was leaving at half past seven.

Had it only been yesterday that they'd talked? That everything had been turned upside down?

They'd exchanged a flurry of phone calls and messages well into the night as she tracked down flight options—after clearing her sudden leave with Chief Vick, whom she said told her "go already; I'm sick of you moping around."

Everything was breathless and hushed and no more was said about feelings apart from each of them—more than once—murmuring _I can't wait to see you_.

He _couldn't_ wait to see her.

He was also utterly terrified.

Juliet was going to take one look at him and turn around to get back on the plane. She would beat on the doors and scream if necessary. One look. No more.

_Then shut up, moron, because at least it'll be over quick._

Could hardly argue with that. But how the hell was he going to get through a whole day of waiting?

Marcy would want to know, but he was in no shape to withstand her crowing. Not now. Maybe if he could get some sleep. Last thing Juliet needed before fleeing back to the safety of the jet was the sight of his raccoon eyes and ragged exhaustion.

Dear God, this couldn't be real.

Over two months of certainty that he was going to Get Over Her and Get On With His Life… yet in a series of unanswered messages and entreaties she had managed to stay completely entrenched in his life and heart to the point that their first actual 'conversation' via text on New Year's Eve was miles ahead of where they would have been otherwise.

He marveled at how little they'd actually said to each other that night, or even on the phone yesterday afternoon. But he felt it. He felt her certainty and knew he'd made his own certainty clear and only their face-to-face meeting would answer the question about whether it was a mutual delusion or something wonderfully real and forever.

Yeah, she'd run back to the plane, no doubt about it.

Or she'd spend a week with him and _that_ would kill it for her.

He knew he was taking pessimism to new heights: after all, the woman was flying 2000 miles to see him. She wasn't merely dipping a toe in the water; she was diving in head first.

_You should have gone to her. _

Why had he asked her to come here? He _should_ have gone to her. He could be spending his time fretting on the plane home instead of fretting here waiting. (Of course, he'd be so antsy on the plane he'd be mistaken for a terrorist, which would force the pilot to land the plane in the New Mexico desert where he would be ejected, arrested, interrogated and then rerouted to a mental institution without ever getting to see Juliet at all.)

He forced his jacked-up mind back to the main point.

Which was… neutral ground. Yes. _Find out where you stand away from what you _know. Away from the familiar. Away from old expectations.

What was he even going to say to her?

_Don't be a moron. You've been partners seven years and haven't run out of things to say to each other yet_.

_And when all else fails—dammit, man, kiss her!_

Carlton smiled at the ceiling.

Yes, he'd like to kiss her… a _lot_.

He flung the sheets back and got out of bed, because there was no use pretending he would find sleep again.

Quite simply, this would be the Longest Day Ever, and then it would end in disaster, and he would have to send for his things and try to find gainful and ideally police-related employment here on the Gulf Coast.

Spiffy freaking keeno.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

It was three miles, give or take, from the condo to the Gulf State Park public pier, and Carlton ran the distance in pretty good time. His current theory was that if he kept physically busy he would be less likely to go insane.

By mid-morning—with still nearly twelve hours still to go until her arrival—this hope was kind of a long shot, but he didn't think he had any other options, and beating the crap out of the condo walls was a bad idea, because he would never be able to find enough spackle to hide the damage.

So he went running, on this chill but sunny January morning, and running hard.

When he made it to the pier, he decided to add half a mile to his overall distance by jogging out to the end and back. 1540 feet, as he recalled, passing the occasional fisherman along the way. It was a wide pier, rebuilt after Ivan, and he'd read it was the longest public pier on the Gulf coast.

But to Carlton, it was really only a way to keep moving and slow the descent into madness.

When he got to the octagonal end of the pier he stopped and gripped the wooden rail, breathing in the cool salt air.

"Well, _there's_ a disgusting sight," someone drawled.

Startled, Carlton looked up; Bob and Adam were about five feet away, each armed with coolers and fishing poles.

"What, a guy in better shape than we are?" Adam asked.

Bob nodded. "Makes me want to have a couple of pizzas delivered out here just for spite."

"Ah, don't worry about it. We made it all the way down to the end, didn't we?"

"Yeah, but we started walking last _night_. We had to eat half the bait ourselves just to have the strength to go on!"

They laughed, and Carlton grinned, and for the first time felt as if he might survive the waiting after all.

"Besides," Adam pointed out, "check it out. He does kinda look like crap."

"Yeah, exercising people always look miserable." Bob opened up his cooler. "Twinkie?"

"Not so soon after the hot dog eating contest," Carlton said, his breathing nearly back to normal.

"Wafer thin mint!" Adam and Bob cried in unison.

Laughing himself, and feeling much better, Carlton sat down on Adam's closed cooler and ran his hands through his sweat-damp hair.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week," Adam commented.

"That's what running does to you," Bob countered.

"Sleep. I remember sleep." He'd slept fairly well since his arrival, but not since Christmas Eve.

"Me too. I've already had one nap this morning."

"Bob, you've had _three_ naps just since we got out here."

"Those weren't naps. Those were mini-strokes."

"Ah. That explains the drooling."

Carlton laughed. "You got an extra fishing pole?"

"Glad you qualified that with 'fishing,'" Bob said with a smirk. "My wife would say—"

"Shut up with what your wife would say," Adam interrupted sharply. "No one wants to hear your claims of multiple appendages. Yeah," he added for Carlton, "I have a spare."

"Next he'll want bait, you know."

"He can always use your Twinkie."

Bob cackled and shared his bait with Carlton, who spent the next hour fishing off the pier with these two nutjobs who were, without realizing it, saving the rest of the population from the effects of his meltdown.

After awhile, Adam asked carefully, "So… you're divorced, yeah?"

Carlton glanced at him. "Five years now."

"Huh."

"What's that mean, 'huh'?" Bob asked sharply.

"Well, I know some of the waitresses at Salty Seas talk about those big blue eyes, but I don't see you hitting on any of 'em."

"Doesn't make him gay," Bob said with a laugh.

"Who said he was gay?"

"Yes," Carlton inquired silkily, "who said I was gay?"

Bob just smirked. "A good-looking divorced guy in his forties who doesn't hit on women _might_ be gay."

"You just said not hitting on women didn't make him gay." Adam cast his line out, wearing a similar smirk.

"If it'll help clear things up, I'm _not_ gay."

"But Bob thinking you're good-looking might make _him_ gay."

Bob threw bait at Adam; Carlton had to rear back to avoid being shrimped.

"Let's talk to your wife about that," Bob muttered.

Adam laughed. "She's been wondering if your _wife_ was gay."

"Why, is she interested in her?"

They leered at each other, laughing despite the insults, and Carlton, despite the oddity of his particular role in this conversation, would have hugged them both if he could have done so without letting go of his fishing rod.

"I've been… stupidly in love with a woman for years," he offered after they settled down, a little startled to hear the words escape into the sunshine. It was one thing to have confessed it to Marcy in the dark of his bedroom, but to lay it out like this? Huh. He could think of several psychologists from his past who would call that a major breakthrough.

"Stupidly?"

He gave Adam a crooked grin. "She was unavailable."

"Was?"

Bringing the line back in to re-bait the hook, he said carefully, "Things have… recently… changed."

Just as carefully, Adam prompted, "So… that's good, right?"

He shrugged. "If being optimistic didn't go against everything I hold sacred, I'd be optimistic."

"Is she why you're down here alone?" Bob was asking, and for a moment Carlton reminded himself that these two weren't just jokers; they were men too, men who had lived and knew a few things about life and women and possibly even what it was like to love someone you couldn't have.

He hesitated. "I… I hope to not be alone here much longer."

Adam slapped him on the back. "Good deal, then. And don't give up on optimism. It doesn't completely suck."

"Oh, it sucks," he said grimly. "It sucks like being the dead goose which had to smack Fabio in the nose."

"Man," Bob said, his tone solemn, "I owe that goose _everything_."

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Jogging back to the condo later—he'd been offered a ride but knew he still needed the distraction and besides, hoofing it would eat up more time—Carlton passed the Salty Seas and gave a thought to Marcy's fierce words yesterday.

He went another few hundred yards and then stopped and turned around. Might as well get it over with.

She wasn't at the bar but he found Dave coming out of the kitchen.

"Marcy's not here," Dave said shortly, "and I don't know what's going on but she said you weren't supposed to be here either until she gives the all-clear."

Fair enough. "It's okay. I just have a message for her."

"Yeah? What's that?" He dried his hands on the towel and waited, slightly combative. "And you know, she said nothing was going on between you but I dunno, man. I still wonder—"

"Nothing's going on," he cut in sharply. "She's been a friend. Just tell her… tell her my IQ went up, okay?"

Dave's eyebrows went up. "Come again?"

"Just tell her my IQ went up," he repeated. "She'll know. And I'll talk to her later." He left Dave frowning at him, and jogged back to the condo half-relieved he hadn't had to face Marcy directly.

**. . . .  
. . .**

The condo was equipped with basic cleaning supplies, so Carlton spent a good chunk of the afternoon cleaning everything from top to bottom and around again. Vacuuming, dusting, wiping down, straightening out, freshening.

He even cleaned the top of the refrigerator, not because he thought Juliet was going to spot-check his rental property as a way to judge him, but because the longer he took to do a more thorough job, the better.

He put sheets from the linen closet on the bed in the second bedroom, because he wasn't going to presume even one thing about what might or might not happen between them.

God knows he wasn't fit for her, and she might honestly prefer a space of her own while they found their way along this treacherous path toward… toward… _everything_.

As if he had a choice in the matter, he 'allowed' his mind to wander for a moment… or ten… to the incredibly delicious idea of _everything_ with Juliet, particularly the _everything_ which would take place in a bed. Or up against a wall. Or on the floor. Or…

The ten moments stretched to fifty or sixty, and a cold shower was in order post-haste.

He had just collapsed in the armchair, satisfied the place was acceptable for his Juliet (_his Juliet_), when the landline rang.

Marcy.

"So," she said. "Your IQ, huh?"

"Big jump, yeah."

"Spell it out, Carlton. Don't make me interrogate you. I have customers who want their happy hour drinks."

He could hear noise from the Salty Seas in the background, including Dave snapping at a cook. "I called her."

"Well, I figured that. And?"

"What did you tell Dave about… us?" How awkward and surreal: he had _been_ with this woman. Just over two weeks ago.

Marcy paused, lowering her voice before answering. "I said I went home with you but we only talked. This afternoon I explained that you belong to someone else. He believes me, and he'll leave it alone."

Carlton knew he didn't have to ask her not to say anything to Juliet. That would be his job.

"So?" she urged. "Look, you're allowed back in here. Come down and have a drink before dinner and I'll be all ears."

"I can't. I… I have to go pick her up at the airport tonight and if I try to eat anything before then I'll probably lose it."

Marcy laughed. "My God! You really did call her! You so owe me, buster!"

If she expected a retort, she didn't get one. "I do owe you. If this goes well—"

"It'll go well, you idiot. If she's flying out here the next damn day after you called her, it's going beyond well. I expect to meet her at some point, and I won't even make you kiss my ring when it happens."

"Your graciousness overwhelms me," he said dryly.

"I know," she laughed. "Wow, I'm so proud of you."

"And smug."

"Yeah, little bit. Other than the wild card of having the boyfriend answer her phone that night, have I been wrong about anything?"

Carlton thought about it. "Well, no."

"Ha! Booyah!"

While she was cackling, he pointed out, "But she could still cut and run after she gets here."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look, I'll try to call you back later. Let me know how it goes!"

_If I survive_, he thought. _And that's one honkin' if_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He was showered. He was shaved. He was dressed.

He was sitting on the beach, staring at the dark sea, his newly ironed khakis growing damp from the sand. The sun had long since set and he was still half an hour away from leaving and he was utterly, totally, paralyzed.

_This is going to blow up._

_I am going to blow up. _

_I am a moron of the highest magnitude._

_She would be better off with Sp… no... Guster._

Raking his hand through his hair, he sighed profoundly.

_Just get in the car and go._

_If you're going to die, die on the way there instead of on the beach in front of the condo._

His heart was pounding and he had to move.

"Is this beach big enough for the two of us?"

Carlton froze.

The voice had been soft and blessedly familiar, and he turned slowly, so slowly, not wanting it to be a hallucination.

Haloed by the light from the building, _she was there_.

He got to his feet and stared at her.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Juliet," he said hoarsely.

"I saw your car out front but you didn't answer the door." She tucked a curl of hair behind her ear, unmistakably nervous.

Carlton abruptly took a long step forward, and whether he swept her into his arms or she flung herself into them, he couldn't tell.

The main thing was… _she was here_. Pressed to his body, warm and soft and clinging and _perfect_, as if they'd been _made_ to fit to each other just like this.

"Oh my God," she sighed, "this is worth everything, right here."

He still couldn't form a sentence. He was holding her so tightly he wasn't even sure how _he_ could keep breathing.

Juliet tilted her head back and smiled at him, radiant in the light from the building, and showed no signs of wanting him to loosen his grip.

But he moved one hand, to cup the soft skin of her cheek, staring down at her and still not sure she wasn't merely a mirage, a sign of his mental breakdown. "You're here."

"About midnight I realized I wasn't going to sleep until I was with you again so I got back online and booked the earlier flights. I got in at six and rented a car and drove like a bat out of hell." She seemed pretty cheerful about it. "If a cop had tried to stop me I'd have considered him an armed escort."

He felt a smile coming, and God, she was beautiful.

"You didn't tell me."

"Well, no, because I assumed there'd be missed connections to screw everything up. But you'd given me the address to put on my luggage in case it got lost so really, I just had to go for it. You don't mind, do you?

"Juliet," he said gravely, "No. I have been. Going. Effing. Crazy. All day long."

If anything, this made her melt against him more completely, and he cradled her close again. He sighed at the scent of her hair and her skin and they stood under the stars, the gentle ocean beyond, for a long, long time.

He knew he should take her inside, collect her luggage, offer her food and drink—offer her _himself_—but he couldn't bear to let go of her now. She felt so damn good and he simply didn't want to end the embrace.

But Juliet again tilted her head, slipping one soft hand up to caress his jaw, and then curved that hand around to the back of his neck so she could draw him down closer.

To kiss her.

_To kiss her._

He kissed her.

Years of wondering, culminating in the further wonder of actually kissing her warm sweet lips, feeling her exploring his, feeling the hint—and the promise—of her tongue and teeth… Carlton thought dimly that if his early morning nightmare of a meteorite were to come true now, it would be okay.

Because _now_ he knew the utter bliss of kissing Juliet O'Hara.

Her fingertips in his hair—his in hers—they kissed nearly as long as they'd hugged, simply _learning_ each other in this new way.

But Juliet was shifting against him, antsy, making him more than a little aroused, and his base male instincts knew she was on the same page.

"We have to go inside," he said with some effort.

"Yeah," she agreed with similar effort, and they separated enough to walk back to the condo and around to the front, where she let him collect her bags from the rental car and carry them up the stairs.

Inside, bags dumped on the living room floor, they studied each other in the full light.

Her dark blue eyes were clear and beautiful and although she was obviously tired, she was still the loveliest woman he'd ever known.

"We have a lot to talk about," he said slowly.

"I know."

"A lot… of air to clear."

"You're right."

Was she trying to hypnotize him with the look in her eyes?

"Juliet."

"Later," she said breathlessly, pulled her top off and advanced with an intent he was in no shape whatsoever to resist.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter(let) 6: Juliet's Opinion

**CHAPTER(let) SIX: Juliet's Opinion**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

From the moment Karen Vick told her about Carlton's five-month leave, Juliet found herself unable to stop thinking about him.

Initially it was a mix of worry and aggravation. Was he okay? What was wrong? Why hadn't he said anything? Where was he? Why had he excluded her?

Then her detective's mind kicked in (tempered by woman's intuition) and she realized that while Carlton could be thoughtless, clueless and occasionally insensitive, he treated her better than he treated anyone else, so for him to group _her_ with everyone else he was shutting out meant… that maybe everyone else wasn't the problem.

Maybe _she_ was the problem.

And once she hit that wall, the rest was "easy."

It involved a hell of a lot of thinking and analyzing… and even more _feeling_. Because she missed him, even more than she could express in her messages to him.

Carlton not being in her daily life created a hole it would never be possible for anyone or anything else to fill.

So after the first few weeks of his silence, she decided she only had one option: to wear him down. To remind him he was important to her. To keep him in the loop of her life. To… _claim_ him.

As her friend and partner, for a start. As much more than that… for _keeps_.

When he contacted her on Christmas Eve, he might as well have given her the moon. Those few words on her screen had been hand-delivered by angels bearing Santa so far as she was concerned.

When he turned up again a few days later, her primary thought was _I don't know how much time he'll give me or whether I can get through so keep him on the line, girl_… only to be foiled by the call of duty.

New Year's Eve… all heady scary giddy undertones. Despite the little which was truly spelled out, she felt in her bones that _everything_ was being said.

Then Shawn's thoughtless act, picking up her phone despite her command that he leave it; his holding it out of her reach—something she would never tell Carlton—filling her with fury and terror because he was going to ruin everything with careless ease. Didn't he know how easily spooked Carlton was? Didn't he know he was undoing the precious progress she had made with him?

The following week had been one of despair, devastation, anxiety, and a continual sick feeling.

Shawn had killed it. He had killed it.

She had broken it off with him that night in a cold fury about which she felt no regret. She didn't tell him she'd realized she was in love with Carlton, because he'd forfeited his right to know by _killing her chance with him_.

Then yesterday's victory: another chance. A chance she could not miss—would not give up. Carlton had conquered his fears enough to make the call. That was phenomenal right there.

And tonight. Finding him on the sand, everything in his body language suggesting the flight mode was kicking in… he stood up, and the building lights behind her made his already compelling blue eyes seem twice as vivid as he stared at her, searched her, stripped her emotionally bare without even trying.

All she wanted to do was hold him, be held by him, find out if what was in her heart and head was real and true—and the moment he kissed her, the last tiny fragment of a wisp of a doubt was banished forever. He felt so right, he smelled so good—Carlton's unique scent, something else she'd missed—he was so warm and so… hers.

Carlton was _hers_, and she was forever going to be his.

Now, in the living room, she pressed herself to him and he kissed her hard, but he didn't move from where he stood and didn't follow her lead re: clothing removal.

Juliet undulated against him, feeling clearly his arousal just as she had on the beach, but Carlton slid his hands to grip her arms and put her ever-so-slightly away from him.

"Wait. Please."

"For what?" she asked simply.

"There's so much," he tried. "There's so much we need to say."

She smiled. "I don't think there is. I think it's time to accept. To know. And to move forward." She trailed her fingertips down his throat to the open vee of his shirt, and he shivered, his expressive eyes half-closed.

His hands returned to her back, warm and possessive, and Juliet began unbuttoning his shirt. "What if we don't… _know_ the same things?"

"Carlton," she murmured with a kiss to his chest. "I did not fly out here to visit a friend." Another kiss, another button undone. "I did not come to check on my partner." A kiss to his nipple, another button undone. "I did not travel 2000 miles just to get you in bed." She tugged the shirt free of his pants and opened it wide, kissing his upper chest as her hands stroked all of the warm exposed skin she could reach, hearing him sigh with rising desire.

Looking up at him, into the wide blue, she added quietly, "I'll tell you anything you want to know about how I feel and what you mean to me. About when I knew and what I decided to do about it. But now that I've actually got my hands on your body, I don't really think I can concentrate on conversation." She leaned in to kiss his throat, her tongue drawing a line up to his jaw, and his shivering made her want him even more. "What about you?"

Carlton scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his bedroom.

Why _yes_, that could work.

He set her down in the doorway and pressed her to the jamb and kissed her in a rather bone-melting way, but just as her arms circled his neck he said again, "Wait."

Drawing back, he fixed her with that same half-desperate, half-solemn gaze. Dear God in heaven, she had missed his incredible blue eyes so much.

"Tell me," she prompted, not letting go of him. She wasn't sure she _could_ let go of him now.

"Juliet." He swallowed. "You've come too far for me not to lay it on the line. 2000 miles... neither one of us can afford to be vague." He kissed her forehead, sighing, or maybe letting out his fears. "I love you."

She smiled tremulously: what she had _felt_ from him, he had just said out loud.

"It's not the kind of love a man gets past, or gets over," he went on, his voice low but steady. "It's forever."

"Yes, please," she whispered.

The blue grew deeper, and he relaxed a very, very little. "It means I go back home with you as your man—forever—or I don't go back at all. You have to be sure, and I know it's unfair, because how can you be sure this early? It sounds like an ultimatum, but I need you to understand how real this is for me. How... dammit, how _forever_ it is."

Juliet was standing, in bra and jeans, within the arms of a man she'd been closer to over the past seven years than anyone else in her life, ever. She'd thought of nothing but him for over two months. She'd tasted his kiss and felt his emotion and heard his words. Their truth was immutable.

At the beginning—or even midpoint—of other relationships over the years, she'd had questions a-plenty. Even when things were going well, she always questioned whether the man she was with was the man she was meant to be with. This included Shawn... those questions were never at rest with him.

With Carlton, she only had one question: how did she make him believe?

But come to that, why should he believe? In seven years, what reason had she ever given him to believe?

He'd been hurt before, rejected and trampled, and she'd blithely dated other men the whole time (not that she hadn't noticed him or wondered about him: he was certainly physically appealing and she cherished their bond as partners and was honored that he trusted her as a friend beyond that).

Looking up into those hauntingly blue eyes, leaning in close enough to feel his heat and the tremors of his hands as they rested against her shoulder blades, Juliet knew there was no other place for her to be.

"Once we see something," she began slowly, "whether it's with our eyes or our hearts, we can't _un_-see it. So… I can't un-see how I feel about you. It's not going to change." She touched his cheek gently.

He only stared at her, unmoving.

"If you need more time to be sure _I'm_ sure, then you take that time. If you want me to put my shirt back on so we can continue this conversation without touching each other, that's fine too. But during the week I'm here, Carlton, I'm going to let you know as often as I can, in as many ways as I can, that what I can't un-see is how much I love _you_, and need you, and how much I love the idea of forever with you."

Carlton immediately caught her up close to his chest, where she felt the rhythm of his pounding heart. "Juliet," he whispered.

She sighed against his skin, feeling a complete sense of belonging for the first time in years. "Do you want me to put my shirt back on, or do you want to keep me warm another way?"

He slid his hands up and unhooked her bra, keeping her close, pulling the fabric from between them gently. "I might have a way."

It was her turn to tremble now, because between the husky quality to his voice and the way he nuzzled her throat while he stroked her bare back, she was already halfway to being melted butter.

"You're tired," he growled. "You should really lie down."

"Mmm, yes, I should… please join me."

He led her to the bed and lay beside her, the palm of his hand covering one breast as his lips immediately went to the other. "I've wanted you so long, Juliet." The vibration of his voice and breath against her skin was incredibly erotic.

"I'm catching up," she promised—a bit breathlessly—and he grinned. "I think I've accumulated enough want in the past two weeks alone to be a good match for whatever you have stored up."

"I don't know about that…" and his mouth closed over her nipple, tugging gently while his hand caressed the other breast, and Juliet had a delicious feeling he might be right.

But she had a great deal of interest in this long lean man. She wanted to kiss him from head to toe—to brush his cheekbones with her lips and run her fingers down his thighs. She wanted to make him groan with pleasure—the more she could give him, the better: he deserved it all.

He unzipped her jeans and together they eased them down her hips and off completely, leaving her in panties and never more glad to be exposed to a man's gaze.

That gaze, blue and aroused, was intent and all-seeing. She felt completely… adored. There was nothing but admiration emanating from her soon-to-be lover, as if she were the most perfect specimen of woman ever.

"You're really here," he breathed. "Juliet."

"Where else is there to be?" She drew him down to kiss her, exploring his mouth the way she had on the beach.

Firm and confident, the heat of his kiss made her feel as if she were glowing from within. The touch of his tongue to hers was electric and addictive, and although she pushed his shirt off his shoulders to have more of his skin touching hers, they simply lay together, wrapped up in kissing, for a lovely long time, claiming and learning and… and loving.

Really, there _was_ no place else to be but in his arms.

She moved her leg against him, between his thighs, and he deepened his kiss. Sending one hand down to toy with his belt and zipper, she was soon aided by Carlton himself, who efficiently disposed of his remaining offending garments—taking the time to slip her panties off as well—so they were both nude, pressed tightly to one another, meeting in all the right places and in all the right ways.

Less than thirty-six hours ago she hadn't been sure she'd ever even see Carlton again. She'd been sick with fear and despair and had made up her mind to break the law, to risk her job, by running down his credit cards and phone usage and whatever else it took to find him. To talk to him. To make him understand.

To get the chance she had right now: to _be_ with him.

To be _his_.

And when desire overtook them both and their bodies were connected fully, intimately, perfectly, she knew this was just the beginning of everything she could ever have hoped for… because now they truly belonged to each other.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	7. Chapter(let) 7: Interlude

**CHAPTER(let) SEVEN: ****Interlude**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was so simple, yet so amazing.

Juliet's hand rested on his stomach. She was asleep, her head warm against his shoulder, one leg draped over his, and her hand lay lightly on his stomach.

It was the most wonderful feeling he'd _never_ expected to have. Just her hand on his bare skin, making him feel like he was hers… without even trying.

Carlton had no idea what time it was. They'd made love for hours, because neither one of them was ever fully 'done' so long as there was more skin to touch, more places to kiss and nuzzle. He was longing to touch her even now, worn out and (largely) sated… he simply wanted to skim her warm soft skin with his fingertips, mapping the terrain she had so freely given to him.

Carefully turning onto his side, hoping not to wake her, he managed to scoop her closer. She sighed and came easily into his embrace, and he fell asleep again, feeling complete contentment.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She wasn't in bed when he next woke, but he wasn't worried: he sensed her presence nearby. In the bathroom, he could tell she'd showered, given the water droplets on the shower wall and the scent of coconut shampoo. He took a quick shower himself, found his flannel pajama pants, and padded out into the sun-bright living room.

Juliet was standing at the sliding glass door gazing at the flat silver-blue ocean. She held a mug—he didn't smell coffee so she must have found the tea stash—and was wearing only a large green towel.

Turning to smile, golden in the morning sun, she was indescribably lovely to him, and he faltered.

"Hi there," she said softly.

"Hi," he managed, and made it a few more feet.

Her eyebrows went up. "Afraid to come closer?"

"Yes."

"Is it the towel?" Definite smirk.

"Uh, yeah."

"I could take it off, if that would help."

"Give me a minute," he said. "I need to absorb the wonder of you." In truth, he felt a little short of breath. Trying not to go to where she stood, tear the towel off and have at her was requiring a considerable amount of effort, and he'd only been in the room ten seconds. He sat down in the nearest chair, trying to still himself.

Juliet laughed. "That's very flattering. You look rather wonderful yourself."

Carlton felt himself blushing. "I need to shave."

"No, you don't. I like your hair longer like this, too."

He couldn't form an answer, because he couldn't take his eyes off her.

"What is it?" she asked, curious.

"My God, Juliet, you are just so beautiful."

Her turn to become a bit pink, and as she sipped her tea he thought he detected a trembling in her hand.

"I, um… wow," she said shakily. "I really want to jump you right now."

His heart started racing.

"But maybe… since we're not actually touching… yet…we should have some of that talk you wanted last night."

His heart stopped for a moment. This was it.

This was The Big But.

Juliet was watching his expression. "No, Carlton. Nothing has changed. I'm still crazy about you and I still want to be here." She smiled gently. "I just have a question or two."

_Oh God… was that all_. "Anything you want." He sat forward, elbows on his knees.

She moved to lean against the arm of the sofa, still holding the tea. He wouldn't have minded if the towel came off, although it would certainly impair his ability to comprehend whatever she was about to say.

"I'm having trouble getting used to the idea," she began uncertainly, "that anyone would actually… run from _me_. I don't feel special enough to... to deserve that sort of…"

In the pause, he supplied, "Love? But you are that special. Ten times over."

Juliet sighed with obvious contentment. "You've made me feel that way since I got here, but… I'm just a woman, Carlton. I'm not perfect and God knows I've made some bad romantic choices in the recent past. Even after I began to wonder if you'd left town because of me, I couldn't really let myself think it because it seemed so egotistical."

"It's not egotistical. I was besotted and stupid and a coward and—"

"Stop. We're together now." She smiled, and he relaxed. _(How did she do that?)_ "What made you finally give in to my incessant nagging?"

Carlton thought about what to say and how to say it, and finally went for the simplest version of the truth. "Your campaign manager."

Juliet was startled and amused. "Come again?"

"There's a restaurant down the road called Salty Seas. One of the owners, who also tends bar, somehow got me to tell her I'd come here because of a woman." He gave her a wry smile. "Anyway, she made it her mission to get me to see what a jackass I'd been, abandoning my best friend without a word. She reminded me that even if I did somehow manage to get over you, I wasn't giving you much incentive to stick with me as a partner, let alone a friend."

Her smile turned to a frown. "I would never have wanted another partner, and nothing could stop me being your friend."

"You might not have felt that way if I'd kept silent the whole five months." When she started to shake her head, he went on implacably, "You don't know. And I sure didn't."

She finally nodded. "We don't have to find out now. So what else did she say?"

Carlton ran one hand through his hair, feeling ridiculous. "Well, she called me a few names, she questioned my intelligence, she said I was a coward, and she told me I was banned from her restaurant until I talked to you. She even punched me. It was a comprehensive platform."

Juliet's eyes were wide. "Wow. She _punched_ you?"

He pointed to his chest. "About half an hour before I called."

"Wow," she repeated. "I have to meet this woman. What's her name?"

"Marcy. She wants to meet you, too." He studied his hands for a moment. "She's been a friend to me. The kind I needed, willing to kick me in the ass." He still didn't know whether he was going to—or needed to—tell her the full extent of his relationship with Marcy, but he did know _this_ wasn't the time.

Quiet for a few moments, Juliet sipped her tea and then asked quietly, "And if you hadn't met her? Would I ever have heard from you?"

Carlton sighed, uneasy. "I don't know. I was pretty sure no good would come of it, and my cowardice where you're concerned was a constant companion."

She gazed at him, dark blue eyes solemn and beautiful. "When you sent me that email on Christmas Eve, I was… I was simply beside myself. I was so happy, Carlton, to know you were alive and well and finally talking to me again. It was like… finding the most perfect gift under the tree. And then talking to you on New Year's Eve… it was terrifying and _fantastic_ and I don't think I'll ever be able to make you understand how completely sick and angry and scared I was after Shawn ruined it."

He hurt for her. "I'm sorry I let my fear take over. I'm sorry for everything I put you through."

"Oh, Carlton, no—as awful as it was, I needed it. I needed to have all that happen or I might have given in to my own cowardice and let you retreat even further. As it is, I was just about to start running your financials to find you."

She'd said so in one of her emails but now, looking at her, he saw how serious she was. "That would have been a risky move, career-wise. And you wouldn't have found much. I used cash and a prepaid Visa card to get here."

Juliet shook her head, half-admiring and half-aggravated. "You knew I'd cave in?"

"No," he said honestly. "I never thought _you_ would. I thought Spencer would try to find me just out of nosiness."

She nodded at the latter, but asked curiously, "You didn't think I'd want to find you?"

"I've never thought anyone wanted to find me."

Tears immediately came to her eyes, and he regretted being so honest.

"Oh, Carlton," she said sadly, "I wanted to start looking for you five seconds after the Chief told me you were gone."

Setting the mug down on the end table, she came to him, and Carlton leaned back in the chair to accommodate her straddling his thighs. She kissed him tenderly, the scent of shampoo in her still-damp hair a pleasing fragrance along with that of her clean warm soft skin.

She murmured against his lips, "I will show you every day how much I value you. How much I need you. How much I _love_ you."

He tried to tell her he would do the same in return but her kiss drove every other thought out of his mind… except for a deep need to pull off the towel and have her naked body close to his.

Juliet had similar ideas, tugging at the waistband of his pajama pants, urging him to slide them down and off, and when the towel followed, she draped herself against him and kissed him languorously and deliciously.

The morning sun reflecting off the silver-blue water filled the room and bathed them in a shimmering light which perfectly fit the buoyant feeling in his heart. He stroked her skin and pulled her even closer, and when she suggested they lie on the floor in front of the balcony he could not say no. Hell, he couldn't talk at all.

On the large green towel, she straddled him again and explored his body, kissing the angles and planes of his arms and chest and abdomen, stroking his thighs and brushing her lips to his chest, marking him as her man with nips and tugs and nibbles.

He lay trembling under her explorations. He knew she could feel how much he wanted to take over—to just _take_ her—but he let her wander his flesh, because he also wanted that. It was glorious beyond all imaginings to have Juliet touch him. Want him. Need _him_.

"I love you," he said huskily.

Juliet smiled against his lips, kissing him with slow intensity. "I love you too, my Carlton."

_God, yes. _Her_ Carlton._

She shifted her body over his enticingly and soon he slid home, joining them completely and deeply in a mind-bending sharing of pleasure and trust and intimacy.

He still didn't know how it was possible, but he was finally starting to _believe_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They spent the rest of the morning entwined, back in bed after awhile and later showering together—water conservation, she assured him, and never mind that it took twice as long because of a number of wicked activities during said shower—and come lunchtime, he grilled redfish and they dined out on the balcony.

Juliet, radiant in the sun, watched a colorful sailboat on the horizon. She looked serene and so natural, as if she was made to be there with him in that spot.

Once again Carlton felt nearly overwhelmed by the strength of his feelings for her. He made himself sit still, offering her salad and vegetables, and had to restart his heart when her foot found his calf under the patio table.

With a feline smile, she moved her foot higher up his leg.

"Juliet," he said reasonably. "You're going to kill me."

She blinked innocently. "I heard that what doesn't destroy you makes you stronger."

"There is nothing left to destroy of my ability to resist you," he countered.

"You're resisting me right now. You're on the other side of the table instead of next to me."

"Two reasons. One, we need to eat or we won't make it through the week. Two, I happen to love looking at you."

Juliet blushed. "You really do make me feel special."

"You _are_ special. I wish I'd told you so a long time ago."

Her foot moved against his calf again. "I wish you had."

"But then you would have requested a new partner on grounds of harassment."

Juliet frowned. "More likely we'd have been fired for having sex on the conference room table."

Carlton laughed, aroused at the very idea of it. "You'd have been that receptive?"

"Maybe not seven years ago when I was new and you were in the throes of your divorce. Maybe not even four years ago. But… I don't think I'd have resisted the idea after that. We were already so close and I've always found you attractive."

His eyebrows shot up. "Always?"

"Of course." She sipped her iced tea, smiling. "Tall, lean, strong... and those big beautiful blue eyes. I wanted to run my fingers through your hair—oh, but by the way, if you _ever_ try that buzz cut again, you're dead to me." She grinned, and added, "I also wanted to run my fingers through your _chest_ hair. It just about did me in whenever you'd loosen your tie."

He stared at her. "Are you blushing?"

"Maybe. But so are you."

Yeah, he was. "The buzz cut won't be back. And you can put your hands on my chest any time you want."

"Same goes for you," she said slyly, and he felt the heat again.

"Eat faster," he commanded. "We have to get back to bed."

Juliet laughed—and when her foot went wandering up his calf again, he moved his chair closer so he could drape her leg over his… which of course made it ever so tempting to slip his free hand into her lap.

Which did in fact make Juliet eat faster.

Which further meant that around the time he'd pulled her dress up enough to touch her bare thighs, they found it necessary to abandon the remains of lunch and relocate to the bedroom.

For the rest of the afternoon.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[yes, t'was another chapterlet, and a lot of mush... but hang in there.]_


	8. Chapter 8: Rice

**CHAPTER EIGHT: Rice**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They sat on the stone bulkhead in the sunshine, legs dangling over the side. Juliet's hand was firmly in his, and her head rested on his shoulder. She was all warmth on this chilly morning.

She had asked to see where he was the day he finally called her, and so he drove to the Alabama Point bridge and walked with her past the cranky herons to the spot where everything had changed between them.

"Here," she said with a faint smile. "It's beautiful."

"More so with you next to me."

She tilted her head up and kissed his cheek.

"I still can't really believe any of this," he admitted. "I had... I had no hope, Juliet. None. There wasn't even one part of my being which thought you could ever feel anything for me."

"You were wrong." She squeezed his hand. "And it's not that I think you're perfect now or we're going to have an easy time of it. I _know_ you, Carlton. You're going to tork me off and I'm sure I'll tork you off and we're still going to squabble in the bullpen and in the car and I'm going to smack you in the arm when you have it coming."

"Which I will." He smiled up at the clear blue sky, not even bothering to deny he could be a pain in the ass.

"Which you will," she agreed, laughing. "But the idea of a life without you close beside me... the reality of it. That scared the ever-loving crap out of me. I took for granted you'd always be there for me and I took for granted that those little... longings I felt now and then were just the natural byproduct of a close partnership. And when that was gone, and when I had to consider _I_ might be the reason it was gone, it was sort of like being smacked by a two-by-four." She grinned. "No, like being tasered, minus the potential loss of bladder control."

Carlton laughed, oddly charmed at the analogy, and pulled her hand up to kiss her fingers. "I should have run away a long time ago."

"Maybe so." She sighed, and nuzzled his face again. "I'm just so happy we're together now. Fully."

"Very fully."

They'd never left the condo yesterday, not even as far as the beach proper. Wrapped up in each other and exploring, they'd given each other pleasure after pleasure, laced with emotion and trust. He had never once envisioned such a complete joining with another person, and the soft words she'd whispered to him through the day and night still danced in his head.

After awhile they got up so he could show her more of his haunts over the past two months, pausing near the second cranky heron so Juliet could ask her how they could improve her mood. Clearly offended, the heron promptly flew away, her grace a puzzling counterpart to the grating sound of her accompanying outraged squawk. "How rude," Juliet declared.

At the car door, he put his arms around her and slid his hands possessively into the back pockets of her jeans, tugging her closer.

Juliet liked that, leaning in and smiling up at him. He knew that look: an illicit kiss was coming, and that was quite an attractive prospect. He already knew her mouth—its shape, its taste, and Lordy, its power over him—and kissing her was nirvana.

But just before her lips touched his, a pickup door slammed nearby and someone yelled, "Don't you kiss him, girl!"

Carlton was both exasperated and amused, and Juliet glanced between him and the man. "That's Bob," he explained. He'd told her about his sometime fishing companions and their slight likeness to Spencer and Guster.

"Why not?" she tossed back at Bob.

"Bob gets jealous," explained Adam, who got out of the driver's side of the pickup.

Bob laughed, coming closer.

"So do I," she said, not moving away from Carlton, and in fact sliding her hands into _his_ back pockets. Crap, _not_ the time to be feeling arousal.

"You must be _the_ girl," Bob said, and Juliet freed up one hand to shake his.

"This is Juliet," Carlton agreed. "She _is_ the girl."

"Woman, thank you very much, and yes, I am _the_ woman. I'm afraid to ask what he said about me."

"Not nearly enough," Adam said, shaking her hand as well. "He's too good at keeping his mouth shut."

"Yes he is," she agreed, her tone neutral, but he didn't miss that gleam in her eye.

"I'm Bob," said Bob. "Adam's the crazy one."

Carlton cleared his throat. Adam rolled his eyes.

"Okay, _I'm_ the crazy one." Bob took a look at Carlton, who raised one eyebrow at the scrutiny. "But then again, you ran away from this beautiful lady, so I dunno how crazy I am compared to you."

Adam said flatly, "No one's as crazy as Bob, but yeah, I have to admit he's right about this one."

Juliet was amused. "Well, in Carlton's defense, if he hadn't run away, I might not have caught him."

"Method to my madness," Carlton offered. "After the fact, of course. I never thought I had a chance."

Juliet smiled. "I never thought _I_ had one."

Bob scowled. "Crap, they're gonna get mushy. Come on, Adam, let's go find some fish."

"No, wait," she said, separating from Carlton but keeping hold of his hand. "How did you guys meet him?"

"Fishermen always find each other," Adam said. "We met up at the Salty Seas and now we can't seem to go anywhere without running into him."

"They're stalking me," Carlton said.

"No, no—_Bob's_ stalking you. _I'm_ stalking _Bob_."

"Well, who wouldn't?" Juliet laughed, and Bob actually blushed. "What's he been like?"

"Who, Carlton?" Adam was surprised. "He's been... a guy? What do you mean?"

Carlton was amused. "They're fishing guys, Juliet. They only know if another guy is a fishing guy too."

"He's a good fishing guy," Bob said. "Not too gabby, not too smartassy."

"_Kind_ of smartassy," Adam amended. "But that's only a problem because Bob doesn't like competition."

"He _can_ be kind of smartassy." Juliet laughed when Carlton gave her hand a warning squeeze. "But he's also the best man I know." She looked up at him with shining eyes, and he swallowed hard at the way it melted his heart.

"Yeah, they're getting mushy now. Let's go, Bob." Adam grinned, and both men shook her hand before they went back to their truck.

When they were alone under the bridge again save for the herons, Carlton cupped her face and kissed her hard, tasting heat and cinnamon and passion.

"Mmmm, I love you," she said with a sigh, leaning against him. "Now take me to the Salty Seas. I want to meet Marcy."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

During the very short periods when he wasn't either talking to Juliet or making love with Juliet or damn near unconscious after the latter, Carlton had given some thought to how he should handle The Marcy Issue.

It was pretty simple in the end: Marcy was then. Juliet was _now_... and forever.

Marcy had been his friend, and he would be hers by respecting her privacy as long as he could. If Juliet ever asked him point-blank, he would not lie—he _could_ not lie, not about something like that—but until such time, his night with Marcy would remain private.

He knew this was right for many reasons, and his head and heart were clear when he and Juliet walked into the Salty Seas.

They'd just opened, and a waitress he hadn't seen before offered to show them to a booth, but Carlton led Juliet to the bar, where Marcy, head down, was counting money at the register.

"47, 23, 311," he said.

"I don't serve wise-asses," she muttered, but looked up as she dropped the last coin into the drawer. "Well, hello!" She smiled broadly at him for a moment and then turned her attention to Juliet. "_You_ are gorgeous!"

Juliet was startled, yet took it in stride. "So are you!"

She was, rather. Marcy with her dark eyes and long curly brown hair was a dramatic contrast to his fair-skinned, blue-eyed Juliet; she was also more blunt and much more likely to show temper (he'd seen the waitstaff step lightly around her as well as Dave some days) but he knew her heart was kind.

Marcy laughed. "Maybe we should get a room." At Carlton's expression, she laughed again. "Kidding. You're Juliet, and I'm Marcy. Thank _God_ you're here."

"Thank God you beat him up," Juliet countered.

"All in a day's work." She came from behind the bar and shook her hand briskly. "He needed it."

"I know, and I owe you big. I mean it, Marcy. _You_ gave us this chance."

Marcy nodded, either embarrassed or trying not to seem cocky. "I'm glad I could."

Carlton rubbed the spot where she'd hit him. "You know you nearly cracked my rib."

"Next target was your kneecaps," she retorted. To Juliet, she said confidentially, "He's been a dead man walking the last few weeks. Getting him to call you was becoming a public safety issue."

Juliet looked at Carlton, smiling, and slipped her hand into his. "Then you saved two cities at the same time."

Marcy nodded. "I expect I did. So, since you got here two days ago and this is the first I've seen of you, I guess everything's going... well?" Her tone was sly.

He couldn't say anything.

Juliet went pink.

Marcy laughed delightedly. "I'll take that choked silence as a yes. So go sit down! I'll make sure the cook doesn't drop any of your food on the floor, and the beer's on me." She shooed them away.

In the booth, they composed themselves, laughing a little. "You _are_ glowing," he said.

"No more than you, Romeo."

"No hickeys in sight," he assured her.

"One of yours might be if you'd unbutton that—" She reached across the table and he pretended to slap her hand away, making her laugh.

They _had_ left little marks on each other, but he figured as long as the most important marks were in each other's hearts, the surface didn't matter.

Marcy took their orders herself and sat with them a little while later on. She and Juliet seemed to hit it off; he watched the two of them and decided they were each as 'natural' as he'd ever seen them. He hoped _he_ was, but in honesty, he wasn't as concerned as he might have been at another time in his life. Maybe it was the quiet certainty that he had Juliet's love, or maybe he was simply more whole himself now... but these women chatting was okay. It felt okay.

She made them promise to come back for a meal or two over the next few days, and asked Carlton, "So does this happy ending mean you're going home ahead of schedule?"

He blinked.

Juliet looked surprised. "We haven't actually talked about it."

"Oh... well, guess you will now!" Marcy grinned and went to attend to the rising lunch business.

Juliet tilted her head. "I really hadn't thought about it. I do want you home, of course, in case you wondered."

"Not as much as I want to be there," he said fervently, although really he would consider anywhere home if she was with him.

"But I don't want to cut your vacation short."

"It's only been a vacation on the outside. The minute you get on that plane it's going to feel like a prison sentence." It had been like that before, but now—knowing his feelings were shared—it would be worse.

"For me, too. What would be nice," she suggested slowly, "is if Chief Vick gave me another week off. We could drive back together and still have some time after we got home." She smiled. "You don't have to come right back to work but I would love to know you're only a few miles away instead of a whole country away."

Paradise, even without the seaside. "I like the idea. And in case Vick wants to separate us, I'll already be on extended leave while she figures out where to transfer me."

Juliet's eyes grew huge and alarmed. "She is not going to transfer you. She _can't_."

"She could," he said quietly. "And it'll be me who goes, sweetheart. Not you. I won't let another partner take the heat for me."

"It wouldn't be _for_ you. It would be _with_ you. I'm not working without you anymore. If it comes to that, we can both quit, open up our own detective agency, and compete with Psych." She was talking fast, in pre-panic mode, and he reached across the table to take her hand firmly.

"Slow down. We might not have anything to worry about. I'm just telling you that I will _not_ allow your career to suffer because you happen to love me." While she was staring at him plaintively, he added, "And there'd be no competition with Psych. Please. They'll eat our dust."

For a second longer, she still stared, and then burst into laughter. "_Hell_ yeah they will."

"And on that topic… we haven't really talked about Spencer." He'd been unsure about bringing him up, but as long as they were discussing the future at all, it seemed a logical segue.

Juliet subsided at once. "He tried to talk himself back into my good graces a few times but I just kept telling him it was over and he'd have to move on, because I was."

Carlton studied her. "He's not going to like who you moved on to."

"I know, but I can't do anything about that. You and I are adults and we're going to be discreet. If there's any trouble, it'll be on his side, and we'll deal with that if we have to. Together, right?"

"Always," he promised. "I'm going to be on you like white on rice."

Her eyebrow went up, and her smile was feline. "I like the sound of that. Can you demonstrate later without any clothes on?"

Carlton took a quick slug of his beer. "Yep."

Laughing, Juliet whispered something about finishing lunch quickly so they could get back to the condo and get started on that.

After a quick goodbye to Marcy at the bar, they got in the car and Juliet promptly flung herself at him, her kisses hot and her hands wandering his body, making him impossibly aroused. He had to beg her to back off long enough for him to drive, but her fingers still traced maddeningly sensual patterns on his thigh until he grabbed her hand to keep it still—ignoring her laughter and protests.

When they were home and up the stairs and behind the locked door, Juliet started taking off her clothes on her way to the bedroom, but Carlton caught her wrist and pulled her close there in the hall, shimmying her out of her jeans and panties and lifting her leg to hook around his thigh. He was still dressed, but he ground against her and she was gasping with desire.

"Yes," he growled, "I would like you to get another week off." He nipped at her lower lip, licking and nibbling while she moaned. "But first I want to get _you_ off."

She nearly went limp in his arms when he slid a hand between them, but her tongue was forceful against his and her leg clamped around him hard. He brought her to orgasm quickly and then carried her the rest of the way to the bedroom while she trembled with aftershocks.

Later, as the frenzy continued, he was caught between marveling at what she did for him, what she let him do for her, and what they could do for each other—what they wanted and _needed_ to do for each other.

He lay half on top of her, out of breath and unable to move, but Juliet liked him where he was, judging by how she tightened her arms around him when he did try to roll off.

"You're not going anywhere," she whispered. "Never again."

Nuzzling her earlobe, he whispered back, "I only have the condo until mid-March."

Juliet laughed and swatted at him, capturing his mouth for a fully decadent kiss. "Oh, Carlton, I love you so. I'm so sorry it took this long for us to get together."

He kissed her cheekbones and her forehead. "Worth the wait. More than worth the wait. And you'll be asking yourself if you're crazy before too long."

"Oh," she scoffed, "I already know we're both crazy. But that's something else we can do together, partner. Happily ever after."

Carlton smiled.

"Say it again," she whispered. "Say you love me."

"I love you with every ounce of my being, Juliet. With every beat of my heart. With every breath in my lungs. With every swimmer in my—hey!" he protested when she swatted him.

She had dissolved into laughter, and pushed him onto his side so they could lie together. "We'll talk about your swimmers when we get back to Santa Barbara."

"At which point I will have said I love you at least ten thousand times. Plus two."

"That's more like it." She curled her fingers into his hair, making him shiver as she brushed the back of his neck. Her dark blue eyes were mesmerizing him again, and he felt so utterly complete and good and ready for anything. More. _Everything_.

"Happy New Year, Juliet," he murmured.

She smiled, and kissed him with gentle, simmering heat. "It is now."

It was indeed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**E.P.I.L.O.G.U.E**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Chief Vick didn't separate them.

Juliet was granted another week's leave, and Carlton even let her help with the driving on the way back to California. She said smugly that _this_ was the proof she needed he was in it for the long haul. He rolled his eyes; she smacked him in the arm, and they stopped for the night ahead of schedule to take of sudden urges.

Actually, that happened every night of the trip, which is why it took two extra days.

Carlton stayed off work another two weeks after their return, spending time at the shooting range to be absolutely _sure_ he hadn't lost his edge, and helping Juliet move her things into his condo, which was all the better for it.

Spencer stood down sans drama. He and Guster declined cases for awhile but eventually a need to pay their TiVo bill won out, and Psych resumed sniffing around for cases. Carlton didn't engage with Spencer, didn't gloat, didn't rub it in—didn't even _want_ to. He didn't want to upset Juliet, and besides, what glory was there in reminding a man he'd lost something incredibly valuable?

After five months, Juliet convinced Carlton she really didn't want a big wedding but did really want to be married to him. Forever. No take-backs.

Forever, he mused. The "ever after" which followed "happily."

Not a phrase he'd ever thought to associate with himself, but as he stood with his radiant blue-eyed Juliet in front of a judge in late June, it seemed to be indisputably true.

Juliet glowed, lighting the room with her happiness, and Carlton's heart was overflowing with joy he still couldn't quite believe he was _allowed_ to have.

She kissed him and whispered that she loved him, and he whispered back that he knew, and Judge Lawson was surprised to see Juliet swat him—a recurring theme now—but not so surprised when he swooped down and kissed her senseless.

"I'll love you forever," Carlton murmured into her ear.

Juliet beamed. "That's just for starters."

"Like white on rice," he said with a grin. "Like white on rice."

They were late to their own dinner reception and disheveled when they got there—and no one who'd seen them over the last few months was at all surprised.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Of course they honeymooned in Orange Beach.

They fished with Bob and Adam, they drank beer and played darts with Marcy, they walked the Gulf State Park pier, they spoke to the herons at Perdido Pass under the Alabama Point bridge, they made love for hours on end, and all things considered, "happily ever after' was a phrase which fit the two of them pretty well.

Sort of like... no, _exactly_ like white on rice.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**E N D**


End file.
